


A Very Important Day

by cambion



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Sadstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-31
Updated: 2012-03-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 14:25:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 41,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/308810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cambion/pseuds/cambion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Dave Strider, and you head-over-heels in love.</p><p>With your best friend.</p><p>Who is heterosexual.</p><p>And married.</p><p>You aren't sure how long you can keep this up.</p><p>[WELP the original story I had up of this was accidentally deleted. Sorry for any confusion!]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wedding

**Author's Note:**

> {A/N: This was meant as a quick sadstuck oneshot but since then it's sort of... skyrocketed, and will be a multichapter fic.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!)

Your name is Dave Strider, you are twenty-five years old, and today is a very important day. Not for you - no, you don't really have too many important days (that's a lie, yes you do - they just aren't important _to you_ ) anymore. This is a big day for John Egbert, your bro, best friend, the guy who's been there for you through thick and thin, through the end of the world, since you were just a tiny guy. It's a day he's been looking forward to for years, and it's one you've anticipated too. When you're helping him flatten the creases in his jacket and stop him from fidgeting and messing up his hair, you think that he looks really nice - wonderful, handsome, happy.

"Do you think I look okay? Jeez, is it hot in here, or is it just me?"

"It's just you, bro, calm down," you say, patting down his hair again. "Chillax, okay? You look sweet."

"You really think so?" he smiles nervously, those front teeth still just a bit ahead of the others.

"Yeah," you half-smile, just barely, "I do. She's gonna eat you up, okay?"

His face goes a little red, but his smile's even bigger. "Thanks, dude!" and he hits you, laughing with a snort.

Today is a very important day for the person most important to you, someone you think is the love of your life.

Just not for you.

"Hey, you guys ready?" Jade peeks in blinking and adjusting the round lenses of her glasses. "The ceremony's about to start!"

"What?! Really?! Oh god, fuck, I--" and he's in panic mode again, checking his face in the mirror and messing up his hair all over again. You put it back in place, grabbing him roughly by the chin.

"Dude, you're fine. You do wanna marry her, right?" you raise your eyebrows.

"Of course!" he nods eagerly.

"Then you'll be okay."

And with that he's walking out, deep breathing, and you're following after, making sure he gets up to the altar without having an anxiety attack, giving his back a good hit every so often for good measure.

You remember when he asked you to be his best man. It really wasn't something he expected you to say no to at all - after all, you'd decided years ago that you'd be each other's best men. You were always adamant that you'd get married and then you'd finally be his when he was old and gray, and you'd be laughing but at the same time mad because then you'd look hideous in your suit. Seriously, couldn't he get married when you were young and hot? Jesus. And at that part he always hit you, and you two started wrestling, and you'd always be at a tie until you tickled him, and it went on like that.

So when he asked you to be his best man first, it was actually kind of a shock - even though the both of you knew you'd been joking. "So what was that about you being my best man when I'm an old fart, huh?" he prodded when he first called you up to ask, laughing warmly on the other line. "You don't even have a girlfriend, do you?"

"Oh fuck off," you'd retorted, flipping through the pages of the latest screenplay you were working on. 

"Wait..." he paused, and you could hear the gears working through his head. "Have you ever even had a girlfriend?"

"Didn't I just tell you to fuck off? I don't see you fucking off."

"Oh my... Hahaha, oh my god, the great Strider's never even had a girlfriend, and I'm getting married!" he seemed to be having a time with that, making fun of every last bit of that, dragging the punchline out way too long. "What's up with that anyway?"

"I've been too busy being in love with you, obviously," you said, a joking tone to your voice.

"Shut up, dickwad," and you knew a fist would've hit your shoulder if you'd been next to each other at the time. It figured he'd take it sarcastically. Well, of course you'd wanted him to - as if you'd ever say so so plainly unless you were dead sure he'd think nothing of it.

Perfectly ironic, right?

And now here you are, standing at his side as he goes through his breathing exercises - looking so handsome in his suit and the sunlight coming through the stained glass windows of the church. Though you obviously have your reasons for not wanting this day to be here, you think it might be okay. After all - he looks so wonderful, so happy, so excited. Sure, maybe you'd prefer if you were the reason he got his knickers all in a knot, and maybe it'd be great to be in the middle with him, but you knew that was never an option. From day 1, this was your place, and you could've gotten over this a long time ago, but you chose not to - you knew (thought) you could handle it all. After all, being a Strider, having the happy ending would be way too obvious, wouldn't it? That's what you think, anyway.

And it's almost time, everyone's all gathered in the pews and all so very excited. You see Rose and Jade shimmying next to each other on John's side, Mr. Egbert holding Ms. Lalonde's hand while asking the two of them how they've been doing. Your Bro had been invited, but of course he decided to skip out on the ceremony (though he'd likely show up at the reception later). There are unfamiliar faces on the bride's side, but you think that's your fault - you never really cared to get to know them. You know her okay, after all, you obviously had to check her out and make sure she was good enough for your Johnny boy (she checked out, she was almost too perfect), but that's about where it ended.

And the organist is starting their playing. God, John looks so excited, you almost think he's going to run head-first down the aisle and pick her up himself, but of course he stays planted there, eyes lighting up when she shows up.

She's beautiful - Molly Valentine, golden bob to her shoulders and bright blue eyes, wearing an ornate gown that glows in the sunlight (she looks almost as wonderful as John, you think). They met in college, when he was studying science. They liked all the same dumb movies, were in the same field, had the same dorky sense of humor, both liked pranking each other. It was just a match made in heaven, and as soon as you saw the two of them interact, you knew it. You knew these two would grow old together, and you couldn't even be angry about it like you wanted to. You couldn't even call her a slut, couldn't make up in your head how you'd be better for him, because you knew and know that's not true. You know she's the best there is for him. And you know he's so, god damn happy.

And finally she's up at the front, smiling and waving as her father goes to join her side of the family, wiping at his eyes. She's beaming at John when she finally meets eyes with him, and now his back is to you as he takes her gloved hands in his. And you think that's probably for the best - you don't need to be seeing that look in his eyes anymore, you have to keep it together.

You're only half paying attention as the ceremony starts going underway (which is likely a defense mechanism for your sanity) and your eyes begin to wander a little. Your eyes meet with Rose's for a moment, and she's smiling sadly at you. Fuck, you forgot she knows - you told her years ago when you were drunk and not afraid to ask for condolence. You haven't spoke of it since, but the look in her eyes says she knows that it's still there, and damn it her pity is _palpable_. You look away quickly, hoping she couldn't tell you noticed her looking through your thick shades.

"Speak now, or forever hold your peace," you hear ring through the church, and there is silence. Your teeth are digging into your lower lip, begging yourself to _not say anything_. After all, you're no reason for them to not get married - after all, how you feel about John means nothing when it comes to how they feel about each other. They're happy, so happy - and they will continue to be happy. John deserves that, you aren't about to take that from him.

And it starts up again, a brief sigh of relief through the area. The minister is going through his occult mantra about their dedication, and you can see Molly's smile, her perky little lips pursing before she answers, "I do."

And not long after, you hear John's, and you dig your nails into your palms, keeping a barely there smile, despite your nature, so you don't look like a total dick to everyone attending the ceremony. You know that's probably just making Rose all the more suspicious in her seat - and maybe Jade's curious now too. You glance over and no, she's just dabbing her eyes, focus fully on the couple, right where it ought to be.

You have to tune out the rest, trying to think about anything except the words John is saying to Molly as he slides a little ring on her finger (he's probably smiling so big, God you fucking love that smile), spouting how extremely ec fucking static he is to be spending the rest of his days with her, and maybe even beyond. You glance over and there are tears in her eyes and she says her lines, too perfect eyelashes getting caught in them as she blinks up at him like a doe. 

"I now pronounce you, man and wife. You may kiss the bride!"

And cheers echo and bellow throughout, everyone on their feet as their arms fly around each other and their lips crash together, so, so in love that either can hardly bear it. You know the smile on your face now is so big, and so _forced_  because fuck it's the best you can do, but you're keeping it together, and you're clapping and that's all that matters. Your ears are bombarded by the excitement everyone has, as John picks her up bridal style, and carries her out of the church, everyone applauding from the pews, watching the happy couple leave.

Soon they all clear out, exchanging small talk and other mindless chatter while they go to file to their vehicles, ready for the next event at the reception - of course, the part everyone was actually excited for. You can see Mr. Egbert humoring Ms. Lalonde as she babbles about all the possibilities of alcoholic dreamland awaiting her, and you almost smile for a moment. But you're stepping down with everyone else, Rose and Jade quickly at your side, and asking what ride you'll be catching to the reception.

"Nah, I'm gonna hang back here for a bit. Didn't get too great of a breakfast while takin' care of Egbert's antsy ass," you say, mocking a gagging motion which makes Jade squeak before hitting you roughly over the head.

"You suuuure you don't wanna come?" she pouts after a moment.

"Oh chill, I'm just feelin' a bit nasty, I'll be over in a couple minutes."

"Oh," she blinks, before grinning eagerly. "Okay! See ya there!" and she runs off, trying to drag Rose along with her.

That's when you turn tail to the men's room, deep breathing, and waiting for everyone else to clear out. Once the coast is clear, your fist is colliding with the cheesy-as-fuck wallpaper, curses growling from your throat. Hit after hit, you bloody your fists and soon your forehead also meets the wall, before you fall to your knees, repeating "god damn it" to yourself as if it's some intangible safety blanket.

You don't know why you're so upset - you'd held it through all of this. Years, and years, and years - every time Egbert cried to you about some girl he dug, every time he told you how excited he was, every time they dragged you on some date because it seemed like something you'd like, every time, every time, every god damn fucking time, you kept it under control and just finally _now_ all of that is just put to waste. Now you've lost it all and now the tears can't stop falling, you can't stop shaking and just wishing to God that things weren't this way. You wish you were good enough for someone like him, you wish that he could love you back and that if he did, you'd be worth it. You wish he knew and you wish you didn't have to pretend all this time. 

You almost wish you didn't love him so fucking much - but no, you could never regret that. After all, how could you not love him? It was never a question of that, or even of whether Molly would love him or not - it was impossible not to, you're sure of it.

You wish Molly knew how fucking lucky she was.

It's only after quite a while of this that you notice a dainty hand on your shoulder, and a tissue offered to you.

"G-god damn it Rose, why the f-fuck are you still _here_?" you all-but-yell at her, taking the tissue.

"You should know by now that I know when you aren't actually sick," she sighs, leaning next to you, keeping that hand on your shoulder. "After all, what are sisters for?"

"Just... f- _fuck_ ," is all you can manage out, and dammit you are so _ashamed_. It's one thing for you to lose your cool to yourself, another entirely when someone else is there.

"I know, dear," she murmurs, sitting on the dirty linoleum and gently nudging your head towards her. "I know."

Today is a very important day, for John, and maybe for you too.

But whether it's the happiest, or the worst, or somewhere in between - that's harder to say.


	2. Holly Jolly Christmas

Your name is Dave Strider, you are twenty-six years old, and it’s the Holiday season again.  
As a kid you never really celebrated it very much. Sure, Bro would send another landslide of plush ass your way, and there would be painfully ironic decore lining all of the walls, but that was about it. Then once you got out of high school and got into school for filming, having John as your roommate and Rose and Jade also rather nearby only meant that you’d be more or less dragged into a big holiday shabang. You couldn’t tell if you dreaded this or were excited for this at the time, but the four of you getting together and being festive became somewhat of a tradition.  
Things are still the same, as you pull up on a snow-paved driveway and adjust the scarf around your mouth along with the SB&HJ merchandise earmuffs nestled around your ears. There’s just a new addition to the group now.   
Well, there always were. They came and went - Rose’s many trials with women her age and men her senior, taking a long time to find her right niche, and Jade being the type to drag along some foreigner she’d met in her travels - but this was the first permanent one, the first one who was making her place in there expected and who had been there on and off a couple times. You aren’t sure you like it.  
Knocking on the fogged-over glass, you place your hands back in your pockets as Molly answers the door.  
“Oh hey Dave!” she responds cheerily, smiling and waving at you daintily (everything you aren’t). “John’s been talking all week about how excited he is for you to be here, come in, come in!” And she’s gesturing you in eagerly, moving to take your coat off for you.  
You refuse the assistance, a grumbled apology under your breath, before kicking off the rest of your snow gear quickly.  
“Why do you have so much of that on? Haha, it’s below freezing, but not too terrible cold for a trip to and from the car.”  
“Oh fuck you,” you say. For a moment you worry that she’ll take you seriously, but again, she’s too much like John, and just laughs and smacks you lightly on the shoulder. You sigh slightly before continuing your walk in, bare feet against warm, too-new carpet.  
“Dave!” you hear exclaimed from the top of a staircase you’re idly passing while checking the place out, and soon you find familiar arms locked tight around your neck and dragging you to the ground. You laugh a little, before quickly going into your usual wrestle with him. Ever since you and John started visiting each other, this was something you did, just a rough, neverending tustle of pinning and hitting.  
You hear a warm laugh and Molly’s back over near you, tapping the two of you with her polished toenails. “Now come on boys, that’s enough of that.”  
And John is unhinging his arms from around you (no, too soon too soon too fucking soon) and scratching the back of his head nervously while laughing, “Sorry, Molly! We’re probably making a mess of the floor too, aren’t we?”  
“More like my ironing job!” she pouts, pulling him up from the ground (too familiarly they’ve been doing this for months now fuck you miss when you lived with him and that those years ago he moved in with her and then just months ago they got this house you can’t stop these chains of thoughts they simply will not stop it’s just so fucking domestic you can’t—) and patting down the wrinkles in his green button-up shirt (god he always looked so nice in button-ups) and adjusting his glasses (even if he still looked like a fucking dweeb). And then she kisses him quickly (and he giggles nervously god he’s such a fucking adorable dweeb).  
“Ooooooh,” you holler, still sitting on the floor, and mocking the schooltime practice of children when any bit of romance was even slightly hinted at.  
“Shut the fuck up!” John’s laughing and kicking at you, and you’re just happy to have the attention back on you, even though that sounds twisted as hell the more you think about it.  
“Not my fault you’re too busy macking in front of my poor virgin eyes,” you say melodramatically, allowing your head to fall backwards and the back of your hand to rest on your forehead. This would probably be a lot funnier and a lot more ironic if you weren’t actually a virgin, but seeing as so far John and your right hand have been the only men for you, you’ve kind of been stuck there. ”Oh John, oh Molly, defiling my innocence so, what kind of parents will you be,” you chant monotonously.   
She gasps slightly behind painted nails, pouting at John with puffed out cheeks. “You told him, didn’t you!”  
“What, I, no I didn’t!!” he waves his hands frantically, looking between the two of you with a heavy panic. “I, just, no he was probably joking!”  
What the fuck were they even going on about? All you’d done was implied they’d be parents, which they would eventua—  
Oh.  
“You just gave yourself away, mama-to-be,” you tease, standing on up. “You guys waste no time, do you? Ready to bathe in a sea of Wiggles memorabilia and gender-dependantly-colored footy pajamas?” You’re mocking them while at once beginning to pad away, keeping on a strong face pretty well, even with your back turned.   
“Oh Dave shu— Hey, where are you going?” John blinks, seeming to take a few steps toward you again.  
You fling up your hand, a gesture of ‘No worries, man, I got this’. “I’ve just been in a car for hours, gotta take a visit to the little badass’ room.”  
“Haha, okay ‘Mr. Badass’!” he calls mockingly to you, and you can barely hear him talking more quietly to Molly, as she asks something about whether you even know where the bathroom is. Of course you don’t wait up, and of course you don’t know where the damn bathroom is, but all the suburbian houses are similar enough that you can get your mind around this pretty quick.  
And sure enough, soon you’re closing a freshly-white-painted door shut behind you, back against it as you slump to the ground.  
Fuck, was that kind of realization really something you needed to experience this early into a damned little visit? Sure as hell not is wasn’t, but that was how it happened. Egbert was gonna be a daddy, and Mrs. Egbert was gonna be the little mommy in tow. They’d probably have a cute little girl that he’d so creatively name Casey, and they’d probably invite you to babysit all the time while they went out on their occasional dates. It’s only just now hitting you how permanent all of this is - how he’s pretty much stuck with this fate now for a minimum of eighteen years, and that’s that.  
And it’s not even that he’s stuck with it - it’s that he has no qualms with that whatsoever. It’s that he’s willing to dedicate all of that, it’s that the guy that honestly seems a little asexual to you at times was willing to commit something as big as his fucking virginity to her, and still be so happy and trusting and be willing to have a child with this woman. Seriously a child, not some joke about lizards that he kept up longer than necessary, but really, truly, having the American dream with this woman.  
You wonder if, by some stroke of luck in some alternate universe, he felt the same way about you, would you even be able to give him that American dream? Like obviously you’d have to adopt but that’s not even the point. You aren’t sure you could do this married thing, if you could do this whole keeping him happy all the time thing. He keeps you happy even by not even being with you, but you aren’t sure you’d be able to; not the way Molly does anyway. You’d probably upset him all the time and just be a bore - and you’d especially not really be cut out for being a father, you’re sure of it. After all, though Bro was great and all, that’s all the role model you’ve got to go from. Both John and Molly came from respectable families and overall they just know what they’re doing.  
They’ll be great parents, you know they will. No divorces, no broken families and none of that. You’re realizing that you still had some tiny shred of hope in the back of your mind that maybe things would turn around, maybe you could win him back (like you ever had him in the first place) or something. But you’re quickly realizing that that isn’t possible, and it never was. Even if it was, now it’s less than some bitch you like but don’t at once and you and John on the line - it’s a kid, a beautiful, growing child in her belly. And suddenly it’s so much bigger.  
You just have to stay strong, you can do this. You haven’t had a breakdown since the wedding, and you’re not about to start to now.  
“Hey, Dave, you okay in there?” you hear John question, fist hitting against the other side of the door. You jolt up in surprise, adjusting the old, barely surviving sunglasses on your face (you think about all the times you’ve had them repaired - you doubt John knows they’re the exact same pair he gave you when you were just thirteen years old).  
“Y-yeah, I’m just takin’ a bit, hold up,” you manage out, gathering yourself.   
There’s a pause, before he questions, “Hey are you… are you on the floor?”  
“What the fuck, no, weirdo,” you astute as if your life depends on it. “Your hearing range is off, man you really are ready to be a father.” And you’re pretending to wash your hands before opening the door, ending up a bit too close for comfort to John.  
Of course though, he doesn’t mind, just grinning those pearly whites at you. “We were about to start setting up for the Christmas party tonight! I’ll show you your room, then do ya wanna help us decorate?”  
“Puttin’ me to work the second I get here? Damn, you’re so cruel,” and you’ve got him in a headlock quickly, noogying him and actually getting a little close to smiling.  
This time it doesn’t turn to wrestling (and you think you see him peeking out the corner of his eye to see Molly watching you guys, and you hope it’s not that that’s stopping him, because if it is you’re already feeling your heart scratch again like a broken record), and you’re standing up again, waiting for him to show you the way to your room.  
It’s nice and you drop off your bag, but it’s nothing really to note. Soon you’re helping the two of them out with decorations, mostly doing the stunt work that both of them have too much on the line to attempt anymore (also known as stairs and chandeliers, neither of them can risk falling at this point. But of course, you, you have nothing to lose at all, and you know it better than anyone else) and you’re hanging up all assortments of holly and mistletoe, as well as doing the higher half of the Christmas tree.  
John makes comments about how for how little of Christmas you’ve had in your life, you sure do know how to decorate, but you’re pretty much ignoring him by this point, sneaking some awesome SB&HJ ornaments in on the tree when he isn’t looking.  
Not too long after that, it’s six o’ clock, and the doorbell’s ringing. You flock to it, pokerface in tact and doorman position assumed. “None of that now,” Rose tsks, hitting you on the arm with a handbag and walking in past you.  
“Well hello to you too, darling ecto-sister.”  
She shooshes you, pursing her lips in displeasure before opening her arms wide to Molly, rubbing her back endearingly. You know for a fact that she really feels quite neutral on Molly, but obviously it’s best to feign over-excitement. She’s said herself that being both your sister of sorts and one of John’s best friends, she needs to keep a neutral temper - both slight distaste for you, and fondness for him. You’ve insisted that she’s just fine and you like her okay so none of that bullshit is even necessary, but each time she just shakes her head and continues to stance-less field she’s in.  
She’s helping Molly and John in the kitchen before long, and you’re just waiting for Jade to arrive. Soon enough she is, Bec following after (how fucking old is that devilbeast?) excitedly and leaving white bits of fur all over the carpet.  
And soon enough, it’s starting to feel like old times. Rose and Jade have no guests, although Jade is petting Bec frequently and Rose is caught pestering someone on Trollian on her phone a lot of the evening, but aside from the new location, and Molly’s steadfast position as opposed to the wishy washy nature of year’s past, it’s like old times. A little, anyway.  
“I wanna do presents! I got you all the best presents, heehee!” Jade babbles excitedly.  
“Dinner needs to be served first,” Lalonde sighs, shaking her head.  
And of course, the forever tie-breaker, “Why don’t we do both?” enthuses John, arms positioned out on either side of him in an open gesture.   
And of course (of course of course of course, all of this is too predictable and you just need the plastic evening that you don’t have an actual place in to be over) that idea is taken with open arms, and you’re seated around a painfully nice oak table, dinner set and gifts arranged at your sides.  
You realize you left a couple of yours in your bag, so you stand up pretty soon, explaining. “I’ll be right back.”  
You’re beginning to head up the stairs when John’s hand is up on your shoulder. “Hey wait! I forgot something too, let’s walk together!” He’s smiling up at you, and he’s so goddamn fucking cute, how is he allowed to be this cute? It should definitely be against the law, really, it truly should.  
“Oooooh!” Molly is calling, a mocking of your earlier gesture. And at first you’re really confused. Was she reading your thoughts, or are you just that painfully obvious? You’re spazzing inside for the time being, leaving John to be the one to turn his head around, tilting it in confusion (dammit dammit dammit he is so fucking cute fuck fuck fuck).  
“You boys are under the mistletoe!”  
And sure enough you look up, eyes wide behind your Aviator’s, and there, your dumb ass had decided would be a brilliant location to put it.  
John is looking too before nervously laughing, “Well Molly? Your call!”  
She’s giggling to herself of course, very amused by two obviously heterosexual boys (ha) meeting under the mistletoe. “Well you guys are best friends, it won’t mean anything! Go ahead.”  
This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. You’re supposed to keep everything at bay, and supposed to maybe get frustrated wrestling or bumping chests in a brohug but that’s it, none of this bull. You think for a moment that God must be out to get you - that maybe all the shit about God hating gay people is true, and this is your punishment for diggin’ manbits. This isn’t fair, this isn’t fair, but fuck he’s laughing before closing his eyes and leaning in for a peck.  
You sigh slightly before leaning in to kiss him, and you try to make it a joke but you’re lingering, and oh god his lips are so soft, so wonderful, even better than you ever dreamed and you’re stuck there, just barely holding back from sliding your arms around him and making this a passionate kiss at the end of one of Vantas’ shitty movies. You feel sparks, you do, you feel a million of those cliche explosions of fireworks that every girl in high school babbled about when asking you if you’d go on a date with them and how important their first kiss was to them.  
And then he’s gone, and you’re shaking and opening your eyes again. He’s gigglesnorting, giving you a rough pat on the shoulder. “Nice dedication there, dude! No homo, right?”   
“Right,” you growl out, looking over at the others briefly, and the pity staining Rose’s face is there again, before you’re turning tail without John, hurrying to your room.   
Closing the door tightly behind you, you pretend you had to unload your whole bag to find the gifts to buy you some time.   
The worst part was that he felt nothing. You felt on top of the world - a volcanic eruption, a geyser let loose, the applause of millions, and a little less romantic shift in your jeans, but regardless it was all there and it was all you ever dreamed of. And all he had to say was “No homo” and dorky little laugh. And even that is adorable to you.  
Breakdown number dos, thank you very much.  
You aren’t sure how long you can keep this up.


	3. Birthday

Your name is Dave Strider, you are twenty-six years old, and today is a very important day.  
It’s the thirteenth of April.  
It’s been thirteen years now since a day that you try constantly to forget. You saw heavy bloodshed, lost your dignity, excelled to exponential heights while at once fell torrential falls - you experienced trauma that honestly you probably should’ve had some fucking counseling for. But that’s all in the past - green glitches and red stains forgotten and forced under a tighly-held rug.   
This day is also your best bro, John Egbert’s, twenty sixth birthday. You tend to keep down to living in SoCal these days due to your profession, while he lives up north with his doting wife (you wince), so basically it was more or less assumed you’d make the trek up to see him. Or well, the both of you assumed this - it seemed it may have slipped both of your minds to inform the Mrs. Oops.  
You’re standing at the frontstep with their wood door swung open, sun shining enough for your shades to actually seem mildly necessary but the Spring chill still biting at the bare back of your neck. Molly’s eyes are alight with frustration as she huffs, tapping her feet at John who is hanging his head like a defeated puppy (no, come on man, it’s okay seriously it’s just an extra guest - seriously would she cool her fucking jets? She doesn’t need to be so damn hard on him. You wouldn’t be. You realize she may just be this way though because she’s pregnant - another wince - and bitches get their little naggy moodswings then, yeah? Yeah.).  
“I just wish you two had warned me is all!” she pouts, biting her lower lip, and you can see John’s heart shattering - god he cares so much about pleasing her it’s fucking sickening.   
“I know! We’ve just… done this every year so we just kind of expected it?” he laughs nervously, scratching the back of his head while an awkward chuckle escapes (it’s lower than when you first met, but still has a geekish height to it that would be so properly termed as “adorkable”, if that term weren’t even beyond irony’s assistance).   
She blinks, a more genuine pout becoming apparent. “But… you said you were with family last year, so that’s why I couldn’t take you out…?”  
And he’s panicking, fuck, the poor guy just wants to disappoint the person so important to him, and you know that feeling all too well, so you step in. “We were - his dad took us and Rose and Jade out, with our parents and shit. We’ve been kinda close-nit since some shit went down way back when,” you look to him, raising thick eyebrows just above the golden rims of your sunglasses in a silent seeking of approval. He blinks, seeming relieved, and in that relief you revel.  
“Oh,” she blinks, those pouty lips rounded in perfect, surprised, defeat. “Well that’s alright, I suppose!” she laughs a bit at you, before returning her gaze to John. “What exactly did happen back then? You keep saying you’ll tell me when you’re sure it won’t upset me but… I think I’m ready now, John!” Fuck, he still hasn’t told her about the game? You mean, you guess you see why - none of you guys have told anyone, because well, they find you crazy. But then again, John was the only one who had such a long term closeness and dedication with someone (or at least one with someone who wasn’t part of them game, or knew about that dedication in the first place, you suppose), so it seemed like he ought to have. John was probably scared shitless she’d leave him, thinking he was crazy. Well what did he think was gonna change if that did happen? She trusts him enough to be married, under a roof with him, bearing his child, and more-or-less completely relying on him during said pregnancy and then maternity. All that would happen if he told her later was she’d be more upset because she dedicated this much to someone she deemed crazy.  
You’d never think he was crazy.  
“Come on, I know sweetheart, just…” he sighs, grabbing her hands and god, they’re staring at each other so pathetically, you hate the true commitment you see eminating from them, and yet you love it because John deserves to love someone who finds everything that important (you would, you would) and hangs on his every word (you do, you do, god fucking dammit you do). “It’s my birthday, okay? Another time, no drama.”  
“Right, right,” she nods solemnly, squeezing his hands slightly, causing him to breathe out a little, tiny, barely noticeable gigglesnort. During your time living with him, you got painfully good at noticing his barely noticeable quirks (‘painfully’ was defitinitely the correct adjective there, you deserve a bumping of knuckles for that again painfully sick description). “Speaking of which! What were you boys hoping to do this evening?”  
“I don’t know!” John laughs, before turning to look at you. He always makes direct eye contact, which is something you thought to be fucking impossible before you met him, 1. because few people do that, and 2. fewer even people even try to with your damned shades, and 3. only he has ever fucking succeeded on magically finding your irises, even before you were so intently looking at his. “Since Dave’s in town and it’s such a rare occurrence, maybe he’d like to pick?”  
You shake your head, putting a hand up in a ‘No bro don’t’ motion. “I don’t know shit about the area here. You’re gonna have to pick or I’ll choose like Mickey D’s or something.”  
He’s laughing again (you love his laugh), before he nods. “I think I know somewhere all of us will like!” and he’s grinning like he won the fucking Nobel prize or some shit, and you kept help but smile a little bit too, when he does that.  
—-  
The three of you end up sitting at a table for three at a little music-cafe-bar-whatcha-ma-callit. He definitely picked right, knowing that despite your offshoot career choice, you fucking dig some solid tunes - and even if they aren’t exactly up your alley, they’re close enough, and you know he has to also appease Molly’s needs. You wonder if he picked a bar because he somehow picked up on your heightened drinking habits the past couple years - you hope not, because you’d even trained your drunk self to only contact Rose, or maybe Jade, during those. And you figure he didn’t, because if he did now that you think about it, why the hell would he take his suburban ass and his loving wife to a bar where he figures you’ll get wasted? You affirm to yourself that for the rest of the evening, you will not touch a single drop of alcohol.  
And it goes that way, for a while at least.  
Everyone’s ordered their foods of choice (you got a little Coca-Cola to go with your steak, which you figure Rose is off somewhere screaming and tearing out all her journals on your alcoholism used to vent your homoeroticisms, having to start again at step one), and is happily eating away at them. Molly’s eating the exact same thing as John (sur fucking prise), and at this point you’re wondering why they don’t just order the same thing to eat on. It’s a valid question, but you’re really, really glad they don’t, because you think that’d make you sicker (with envy) than you already were.  
You present your gift to John (Molly already has - some homewarming gifts, his favorite breakfast, and a movie collection as well as some comedy DVD’s, since he’s been straying from his planned science field as of late; you only know all this because John was so fucking exciting), and he’s practically shitting his pants from excitement. You expected this, but still, you’re high-fiving yourself under the table (a habit you’ve had for ages, and are fucking glad nobody’s picked up on it because, damn, wow, uncool jesus fuck), watching his lovely eyes light up as he pulls off the clean-red wrapping paper. There’s a jacket in there that Nic Cage wore in some movie with a certificate of authenticity, you didn’t care to figure out which movie, Nic just handed it off to you. And along with it two letters, both of which he feels the need to read aloud.  
You tune out the one that you got from Nic, because wow damn you don’t give a shit, you do like the excitement on John’s face though, and those little tears forming in his eyes. He feels like a kid finally getting recognition from his idol, you figure, and god if that isn’t the cutest shit ever.  
But then it’s time for your letter. “Aw Dave, you haven’t sent me one since I was 13!” he gasps, and you shrug, before he goes to read it for everyone to hear, great.  
“yo egbert  
happy fuckin birthday and all that shit. after about 26 of those one year after another they start to get a bit redundant and the gifts start to get a little stupid but i wanted to get you something that made your old-geezer life a little cool. and hey maybe you can stop moping about how you live in literally the most boring place ever and feel a celestial hand outstretched from the lands of coolsville. yes touch it gently john its waiting for you.  
anyway thats not the point. im not sure what the point is because i havent written a dumb letter like this since this one time rose made me write one to myself for my mental health but shit that aint the point either. the point i guess is that i need to my ass to layer on some gushy bullshit or whatever. you are my best bro best bros forever and all the bullshit (no homo) and im actually a little surprised i havent left ya in the dust haha nah its the other way around. i mean shit youre married and damn shes a catch im proud of the guy that used to be nothing but a hopeless nerd. you keep it up.  
and thats all ya get. go make love to your nic cage coat now ok  
strider, dave strider”  
And he’s getting right on up from the other side of the table to hug you tightly, before proceeding to noogy you. Molly’s giving a bit of a weird look while you guys are starting to laugh (John laughs harder when you do), before you eventually push him away. “Get in your seat, dumpass.”  
And the evening right then is just… pretty fucking great. And you figure you guys probably oughta head your asses home by then, but nope, John wants to fucking celebrate, it’s alcohol time, right now. He orders himself a basic beer, gets Molly nothing (you can tell she’s almost asking for a beer too herself, but she’s pregnant seriously), and you get your usual Vodka.  
Molly’s watching you both with worry before another round comes, and another. You notice her worry at first and at first you’re worried too, but you aren’t about to be beaten by John of all people at a drinking competition, you mean, come on it may be his birthday but you aren’t that much of a pussy.  
Before the both of you know it, he’s passed out over the table, and you’re making zero sense anymore. Your brain is clear, thick, but clear, but your tongue is thick in your mouth and you’re trying to make it all make sense, “Nah, nah, Molly, he’ll be alright, I swear. Jus’ fuckin’ fine, okay? God, yer such a woman, bluh.”  
She hmfs, but you couldn’t care less, and the both of you are watching John sleep peacefully after that. She’s staring in worry but you, you’re not sure what you’re staring “at in” anymore. It starts out worried, because well seriously he’s asleep but still hiccuping, what the fuck, do people even do that. Then you’re just kind of perplexed, then staring happily. You’ve always liked when John slept, even way back when, cause he always fell asleep first and you didn’t have the heart to move him from the couch (or from leaning on you), and he just looks peaceful, wasted or otherwise. And then adoration, and damn, you just want to reach out and pet his hair because wow damn, it is pretty, and it looks soft. You remember it being soft, it was definitely soft when you pet it once. But you don’t, because that’ll block your view and you’re too busy staring.  
And you realize that even if it didn’t block your view it’d be bad too. Even if it was just you it’d be bad. You can’t hug or kiss him or pet him or any of that because fuck he isn’t yours, and that’s always sad to you but, it’s even sadder than usual right now. You can’t even look at him, you can’t even try to, so you’re just staring down at your lap, biting your lip, before you tear off your shades, thinking this logical because you don’t wanna get them wet, and your eyes are wet right now.  
Through the filter your state puts over your ears, you hear Molly gasp, before she leans over to you, rubbing your back slightly. You look up at her, and with her lipstick and haircut, you think she looks a tiny bit like Rose, or kinda Rose’s mom maybe, and she’s rubbing your back and you can’t help but remember when Rose did that at their wedding, and your throat suddenly hurts a whole fucking lot.  
“Shh, Dave, is something the matter? I mean, I know you’re a teensy bit,” she giggles, “drunk but, sometimes that can be serious too, I think…”  
And suddenly, this girl who has indirectly hurt you the most, but reminds you so much of the one who’s been there when you’ve hurt the most, feels very trustworthy, and you shamelessly grab onto her. She’s surprised, and you think this is weird of you too, like seriously, what are you doing. But again you can’t care and instead of your shades getting wet, now it’s her shirt.  
Her hand is on your head again (you wonder if your hair is soft too), and you’re trying to explain why you’re upset. When you tell Rose, she knows what to say, so Molly might too, right?  
“Sweetie, I can’t understand you, you’re gonna have to talk slooooowly, okay?” she says to you. And she doesn’t sound like Rose, she sounds like Jade, but it’s still close enough and you’re trying to take deep breaths.  
“I just… love John so fucking much, y’know? Like fuck why did’e… have to get marr’d and… fuck…”  
She steps away after that, at the time you can’t quite figure out why, but you feel like you’ve done something really, really stupid.


	4. Suffocate

Your name is Dave Strider, you are twenty-six years old, and it takes you a while to realize where it is you’ve woken up.  
Your head is throbbing, and even through your closed eyelids you feel a painful amount of sunlight seeping in. You slap your hands around to find your sunglasses, but this bed isn’t like yours, and there’s a bedside table you don’t recognize. Eventually you open your eyes anyway, lost in confusion. The combination of dismay and light on your throbbing head stings and pulses, before you realize yesterday was John’s birthday, so you’re likely in the guest room.  
That answers one question, but where are your sunglasses, and why does your head hurt so fucking much? You were deadset on not getting drunk, and you remember ordering a Coke and doing a pretty damn sweet job of it - not gettin’ wasted that is, so you shouldn’t have a hangover. You try to work through the rest of the evening, searching for an instance where maybe you hit your head (even if this isn’t that kind of pain) or just something that had to have happened. And then you remember John ordering a round of drinks and… oh no, fuck, you hope you didn’t do anything stupid, you always do that when you’re drunk - or at least everytime you’ve had text records or someone’s been with you to tell you you did.  
You keep looking for your sunglasses, but figure you lost them sometime last night. Suddenly your breathing stops because those are the first pair John gave you and you can’t just fucking lose them! Fuck fuck fuck, you’re emptying your pockets on the clothes you’re still wearing from last night, searching high and low, and even with the way your blood is pulsing painfully and the way your stomach swells and swishes sickeningly with every movement you just have to find them.  
Finally after turning upside down a room that isn’t even yours, you come to your senses and sigh, going to exit the room. You couldn’t care less at the moment about if your eyes are shown, you just need to find them before they get lost somewhere - and hey, Molly or John might know, right?  
You walk down the freshly-carpeted stairs, rubbing your temples, and see Molly sitting at the kitchen table with a steaming cup of coffee and the widest eyes you ever did see. Briefly you think that she doesn’t really look like she slept at all last night. Maybe John kept her up by vomiting or something? He never did keep his drink very well, or anything that entered his stomach during that general time either.  
“Mornin’,” you slur out, grumbly still from your fatigue. “You seen where the hell my shades are?” She looks up at you apprehensively, and for a second you worry, thinking it’s because of your eyes. Has she seen you without the sunglasses before? After all, your eyes aren’t exactly the nicest color, and as a kid you got teased for being the Devil’s kid - obviously you didn’t take any shit like that, and made that title your own and fucked up their shit, but regardless, still sucked.  
“I uhm… I-I think you left them at the bar last night, I’m sorry…” she takes a deep breath in. “Walgreen’s sells ones a lot like them…?”  
“No, no, you don’t get it, I need that pair,” you hurry angrily and she’s flinching a little more. Maybe it’d be better to actually be straight-up with her. You slow down and lessen your pitch, starting again, “That’s the pair John gave me when we were just little tykes, y’know? They’re kind of a big deal.”  
And that just makes her eyes widen even more (you didn’t think that possible) but she nods. “I… I see. Yes, the bar has a lost and found. If they didn’t break or something, it’s probably there… They’ll open in an hour, you can go then.”  
You nod, using that as a sign of thanks, before going to the fridge to try and grab a frozen burrito or something, shocked when they have nothing. You aren’t about to ask Molly for help on food, not when she’s obviously in the fucked up state she’s in at the moment, so you stretch, fishing your pockets to find your keys. “I think I’ll head over early anyway, don’t got anythin’ else to be doing. Want me to run ya any errands?”  
Her head shakes from side to side quickly, eyes fixated on the slowly dissipated steam from her mug.  
“Er… okay. See ya in a bit then,” you say awkwardly, going to exit the home.  
—-  
You head back after an hour and a half or so, shades proudly back on your face. The manager thought it a little odd that you returned for just those, but was happy to give them back. He also told you you were a wreck the night before, which was well… not nice to hear. Then again, you’re always a wreck when you’re drunk, that’s why Rose revels in it. You’re at your most honest then, she says.  
Fuck, you hope you didn’t say anything idiotic.   
Speaking of which though, you wonder if you texted Rose at all last night; that might provide a bit of gleaning into what happened. When you park across the street from the Egbert residence, you go ahead and remove your phone from your pocket, going to sift through your records.  
Sure enough.  
turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 3:45 AM  
TG: rsoe rose  
TT: You are very lucky that I happen to be awake at this hour.  
TT: Did you fail to restrain yourself from alcohol’s illustrious wonders?  
TG: yeha i gusse   
TG: geuss  
TG: nvm  
TT: Oh you poor dear.  
TT: How did the evening with John and the Mrs. go?  
TG: terble  
TG: well acualy iyt wad ok for awe hile  
TG: i mean  
TG: until he fell aslepr n sthit  
TT: Oh no.  
TT: I assume he drank as well?  
TG: yeah  
TG: n he was so goddamn fuckdfgidfn cute he always is when he sletreps yknow  
TG: n i wanted to just pet him i guessgfr i dont know but shit i couldnt so taht with molly there  
TT: Of course not.  
TG: i got upset i guess wo what a pussy SCORE 1 FOR MEG  
TT: Oh dear. Did Molly console you?  
This isn’t looking good.  
TG: yeha i guess  
TG: shes a lot like you yknow  
TT: She does look a bit like me, yes.  
TG: but she dint like wha ti had to saey  
TT: What did you say?  
TG: wath i always say  
What the fuck was that supposed to mean?  
TT: …  
TT: You didn’t.  
TT: Dave Strider, please tell me you did not confess that to her.  
TG: i did  
TT: …Oi.  
TT: Well I suppose there’s nothing that can be done now.  
Fuck fuck fuck fuck. It’s all beginning to make sense, and that’s why she was so—  
TG: waht hsould i do  
TT: Just go to bed for now.  
TT: Text me in the morning; though I highly doubt you’ll quite remember this exchange.  
tentacleTherapist ceased pestering turntechGodhead at 4:01 AM  
So now here you are, grabbing at blonde hair in a fit of frustration. What the fuck is she going to do about it? Will she tell John? Who are you kidding, of course she will. That’s what couples do, tell each other everything, no matter how many people it screws over. And you can’t even be mad because you know you’d do the same if you were Molly and she’d been his best friend.  
And you wonder how disgusted she must be. Come to think of it, you aren’t even sure how comfortable she is with gay people. Whenever Rose had a girlfriend over, she would get a little awkward, but you thought that might’ve just been because it’s a little awkward when someone likes your gender but you don’t like theirs much. But if that were there too, God, how much must she hate you now?  
And she must be remembering every brief contact with such hatred and disgust. She must be remembering that kiss and hating how some “gay” kissed up on the man she loves - she must be disgusted in herself that she ever encouraged it. And you know how she must feel because you feel that way everytime they kiss and you know how fucking much it hurts.   
But you hope she doesn’t hate you, because if anyone should hate someone it’s you, and you can’t even manage that.  
But then again, she is the one who got the guy. So maybe that’s because she’s better.   
It takes a good half hour for you to get the courage to stand up out of the car, and walk into the house. Better to pretend like you don’t know, act like you did first thing this morning. And when you walk into the kitchen she’s talking to John, who looks like he’s been up for a little bit, but then he looks over at you with such forlorn eyes, and you can’t help but think he knows. The pity grows in his expression, because damn if you aren’t just pitiful by definition. And you hate it. You don’t want him to look like that. You haven’t kept this inside for over a decade for it to not even matter.  
“Welcome back,” Molly murmurs to you, clenching onto her mug with those ugly, chipped polish nails.   
“I… yeah,” you sigh, adjusting your shades. “Got these babies back. What’s goin’ on?”  
John pats a seat at the kitchen between the two of them for you to sit down, like you’re going to be interrogated, like you’re a child with a crush on your teacher and some adults are telling you why that’s wrong. But it’s not wrong is it? You love this boy and you don’t want it to be wrong, it can’t be wrong.   
If it’s not wrong though, why does nothing about it go right?  
And you’re sitting down, tense as fuck but trying to not show one bit of it, looking between the both of them. “Well?”  
“Dave, you see, last night…” Molly begins, reaching a hand slightly toward you. She’s trying to be sympathetic, and it’s disgusting. You don’t want her fucking sympathy, you wanted her secrecy. You don’t want fucking any of this. And if she thinks this is her business right now, she is dead wrong. At least, how you see it, how you want it. John will likely have her stay, because that’s what couples do. They work as a unit and they leave friends behind.  
And John’s hand is on that hand reached to you. “Molly, I… think I need to cover this one,” and he laughs, obviously nervous and scared, and no you never want to make him feel that way, but you feel so happy that he’s trying to do this, ‘cause damn he knows you so well, he knows this would be bad with anyone but just him.  
“Are you sure? I mean…”  
“I got it!! I promise!” he exclaims, and reluctantly she goes to exit, pale blue bathrobe dragging behind her.  
And then the two of you are staring at each other, neither knowing what to say. You always pictured it different than this, you always hoped for a fairytale, for something where you could save him from some tragedy and sweep him off his feet, show him that you’re there for him just as much as he’s there for you. You could’ve kissed away some tears and given an elegant confession, and even if he turned you down he would always know what a romantic gentleman you were, and how if he swung your way, he’d be a lucky man to have you.  
But no, you aren’t that. You’re a coward, a coward who cries to his love’s wife about how she’s in the fucking way. You’re fearful, and nothing to be proud of, and even if it were remotely possible you wouldn’t be able to have him. And you know it. And nothing he says now will change that.  
“So, uh… Molly said that, when you were drunk last night…” here it goes, the final blow. Something you’ve been building up to your whole life, and you feel like you’ve been holding your breath, and now finally, you’ll either let it out and breathe in again, or suffocate. You’ve always known, somewhere inside you, that suffocation is purely inevitable. “That you said you’re in love with me?”  
And you don’t answer. Not because you want to deny it, but because you can’t. You can avoid, you can step around the truth, but you cannot lie. You cannot deny the strongest love you’ve ever, the only love you’ve ever felt. And you can’t deny it but you can’t say yes either, it hurts too much and you know not even your sunglasses can save you then.  
“Well? Was she confused? Haha, I knew it, right! You were probably messing with her, right? Hahahaha! You had me for a second there!” and he’s hitting you in the arm, and you can’t tell anymore if his laughter is serious or forced, and you feel like he can’t either. “I mean, seriously? Yeah, you’ve never had a girlfriend but, in love with me? Pff hahaha, that’s a good one! You’re just my best bro, right?”  
And you still aren’t answering, you aren’t laughing. You aren’t doing anything, just sitting there tense, doing what you’ve always done. Nothing. You’re nothing more than a bystander, and you aren’t supposed to come near the spotlight. Even in your big-time job you only do B-list, and even on magazine covers you don’t take it as some big story you’re happy with. Sure you’ve got money, you’ve got friends, but you never had love or a family. And you never will, because that’s not what bystanders get.  
His laughter has since stopped, and he’s staring at you with that pity yet again. “Dave… you were, joking… right…”  
No answer.  
No breathing.  
You’re going to suffocate.


	5. Breathe

Your name is Dave Strider, you are twenty-six years old, and today is a lot more important than you had thought it would be.  
The air is dead as you stare at one another, not a single breath taken in. You would like to say that this situation is what’s stealing your breath, but it’s been so much more than that. It’s been evenings petting the hair of a boy than isn’t yours, it’s been jokes about something so dear to you, it’s been halfhearted chestbumps that tease you so, it’s been dates you have no choice but to support. It’s been lonely nights when your only friends are colored text on a foggy screen and a half-empty bottle of alcohol. It’s been an eternity without your breath, that damned John Egbert.  
And you feel as if this will only solidify that.  
“Dave, I didn’t know—”  
“Of course you didn’t,” you murmur, standing and brushing imaginary dust off your trousers. “That was kind of the point.” And now you’re walking away, because although you don’t know much, and you often think you are the biggest dumbass you’ve ever known, you know you need to get out of here, and fast. You wish it didn’t happen this way, but you know exactly what he’s going to say, and your sanity simply cannot take it simply sitting around.  
“Dave, wait!” he exclaims, hurrying after you as you walk away, and you have to admit, it’s actually kind of a nice feeling - having him chase you. But it’s not the way you want it to be regardless. He’s not in love with you, he feels bad for you, and that’s all you’ve always known it could be. And you turn around, wanting nothing more than to yell this at him, to tell him to just fucking stop and let you leave, but you can’t, not when he’s looking up with those beautiful, blue eyes. Those eyes that tell stories of vast oceans and lovely, peaceful nights - those eyes that hold so much joy in them while at once causing so much to all around him. You can’t do that to those eyes.  
“I’m not really used to this so, I don’t know what to say, haha…” and he’s laughing, while grabbing onto your arms to flatten them at your side. And it hurts, because he knows how upset you are, even though you don’t look a bit like it. “Just take a deep breath, okay?” and you do, and for once it feels like you’re breathing, and that almost hurts more, because every time you’ve felt like this, it’s gone so soon, so fucking soon and you can’t handle not being able to breathe again after this. You need to hold him and have him as yours but no, that wouldn’t make him happy, you’d never even think of suggesting something that would do that.  
“See, there ya go,” he’s smiling, and fuck he’s so adorable, you can’t do this, you can’t, you’re resisting every urge in your body to force your lips against his and dig your nails into his waist and just sob as you kiss him so fucking passionately. But exactly that, you’re resisting, that’s all there is to it. Because there’s no other option.  
He takes a deep breath (so easily, how does he do that?), squeezing your arms again comfortingly. “So… how long has it been exactly?”  
“We are not fucking discussing this,” you stare down at him, serious.  
“Dave, no, this is serious, come on. How long?”  
No shit, it’s serious. You know that more than anyone. And it’s building and building and you are not fucking ready for this, not ready. You want to tell him it’s just a passing crush, you’ll get over it, but you can’t lie to him, but you can’t very well say that either…  
“Just a little homocrush, no big deal, it’ll slide on through,” you force out, nodding and avoiding eye contact. God, with anyone else this would be so fucking easy but with him you feel like such a shit liar.  
He frowns, and you can tell he’s seen right through it, those black eyebrows knitting together. “Tell the truth.”  
And you’re boiling, a heat of frustration fuming and festering inside you and the burning of your lungs simply will not leave! You can’t do this, you can’t, you can’t, you simply can’t and he’s pestering you, trying to get an answer out and you know that if it weren’t with him this would help, if you were in love with anyone else and he was getting you to talk it would help, if you didn’t know it was all so hopeless it would help, but that’s not the way it is so it is only killing you.  
“Fourteen.”  
“Huh?”  
“Fourteen fucking years, John. That’s how long it’s been. Fourteen years of my life wasted on some… piece of bullshit that doesn’t even fucking matter!” You’re tearing away from him, and the heat is getting worse, stinging throughout you. “Ya happy?!”  
Your teeth are bared and your red eyes wide, but the heat leaves you empty and cold when you look down at him and his eyes are shaking. Not in fear, but in remorse. In a pity and a shame that he hurt you somehow. And that’s why you never wanted to tell him - even though he often saw through you, you never wanted him to worry or think you weaker than he already saw you.   
And now that all meant nothing.  
Bags forgotten in the guest room, you leave, like the coward you always knew you were.  
—-  
tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 8:45 PM  
TT: Dave?  
TG: yeah what  
TT: I wasn’t expecting you to message back, aren’t you driving?  
TG: yeah so doesnt matter  
TG: i cant be tamed jesus  
TT: Yes, clearly.  
TT: But I didn’t pester you to reprimand you for your driving habits.  
TG: what for then  
TT: It’s about John.  
turntechGodhead ceased pestering tentacleTherapist  
—-  
gardenGnostic [GG] began pestering turntechGodhead[TG] at 9:04 PM  
GG: hey dave!!  
TG: yo  
GG: i heard about what happened :((  
turntechGodhead ceased pestering gardenGnostic  
—-  
tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 3:07 PM  
TT: Are you home now?  
TG: yeah  
TT: Okay, no more avoiding me then.  
TT: Let us unravel all your worries from days and years prior.  
TG: sounds riveting but really i have a fucking job  
TT: You left without letting John know if you are still friends.  
TG: what  
TT: He thinks you don’t want to be because of your display.  
TG: no shit fuck no i figure thats his call  
TG: i mean damn come on awkward as shit  
TT: I am aware of how your mind built up and believed he would react.  
TT: But he’s not just your best friend.  
TT: You’re his too.  
TT: Talk to him.  
tentacleTherapist ceased pestering turntechGodhead


	6. Log

4/15  
— turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 15:08 —  
TG: so  
EB: dave!! hey, uh i was really hoping to hear from you, thank god.  
TG: yeah man sorry im not exactly the leading expert in having the heart of a helpless maiden  
EB: yeah, hehe! but uh.  
EB: so.  
TG: so  
EB: …  
TG: you know im more than down with still being bros right  
EB: oh! uh, are you sure? i mean, it’s okay if it’s a problem, i don’t want to cause problems or anything, hehe.  
EB: oh god i’m at this.  
TG: no man i mean that was kind of the goddamn point of not saying shit about  
TG: it i guess  
TG: yknow keeping the righteous bromance and all  
TG: that phrase doesnt work the same way anymore does it  
EB: no, not really…  
EB: but still, that’s good! that’s really good.  
EB: so i guess what’s up?  
TG: i have so many sweet stories for you   
TG: are you ready  
TG: i dont think youre ready  
EB: i doubt they’re as sweet as you think, hehe!  
EB: but yeah, duh!  
—-  
4/14  
— ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 19:12 —  
EB: rose rose rose!  
EB: help!  
TT: What seems to be the matter?  
EB: it’s about dave.  
TT: Oh dear, I worried so.  
TT: Go on.  
EB: well uh.  
EB: i guess apparently he’s in love with me??  
TT: Yes.  
EB: you don’t seem surprised.  
TT: My apologies.  
TT: Oh my! Dave Strider has emotional attachments of the romantic persuasion fixated upon your person! What a shocking development!  
TT: Shall that suffice?  
EB: uh, i guess.  
EB: am i the only one who didn’t know?  
TT: To my knowledge, myself and some friendly bartenders were the only ones he told.  
TT: That and Miss Molly, it seems.  
EB: why didn’t you tell me!  
TT: I am sworn to secrecy by an iron-clad contract, excluding when in the best interest of my patient.  
TT: Your heterosexuality deems it outside that category.  
EB: well uh.  
EB: sort of.  
TT: Pardon?  
EB: well remember that girl i liked in sophomore year?  
TT: Dana? Or Nicole?  
EB: dana! nicole was college.  
TT: Yes, of course. But what praytell is her relevance to our current predicament?  
EB: well that was dave? hehe…  
TT: I would be lying if I didn’t say I suspected as much, but I was at his counsel at the time as well, so I thought it to be my imagination getting away with me.  
EB: shit, so it was at the same time?  
EB: well i guess he did say fourteen years…  
EB: holy! that was before the game even, wasn’t it?  
TT: Yes, unfortunately.  
TT: But regardless, that was sophomore year of high school. Are those feelings still there?  
EB: gosh, i don’t think so! i mean, maybe a tiny bit?  
EB: i love molly so, so much though, so i really don’t think so. is that even possible?  
TT: Yes, and equal-faceted polyamory is quite common as well, though I don’t think that work is the case here.  
TT: I believe you are more than likely experiencing a case of the “what-ifs” so-to-speak, as well as pity. Your best friend is very hurt, so you naturally want to do what will fix that, aided by curiosity of what could’ve been, but wasn’t, due to drifted feelings.  
EB: so i shouldn’t tell him i felt that way?  
TT: No, it would only hurt him more, being that Molly is clearly your first priority no matter what used to, or could as a small attachment, be.  
TT: And let it be known that keeping up this behavior is not shameful - you and Molly are very much happy and in love, and Dave realized this, thus his lack of interference.  
EB: okay…  
EB: he was really, really upset though. like he yelled and stormed out, which he’s never done before.  
EB: and he hasn’t said anything since, so i’m a bit worried, i guess.  
EB: do you think he’s done being friends…?  
TT: Most certainly not, but I will have a word with him to be sure.  
EB: okay, thanks rose!  
TT: Of course.   
TT: Now as we were discussing. Why the sexuality secrecy? You certainly aren’t homophobic; yet you pressed heterosexuality as your identification so seriously.  
EB: well. i don’t know, it was only him, y’know?  
EB: oh molly needs help with the rest of dinner, gotta split. see ya!  
TT: Goodbye.  
— ectoBiologist ceased pestering tentacleTherapist at 19:37 —


	7. New

Your name is Dave Strider, you are twenty-six years old, and not much has changed.  
It’s July, and you’ve since returned to the way you’ve always been. Working, meetings, good friends – nights spent alone with pen, paper, and headphones. And maybe living this life is okay, or at least you’re trying to make it that way. You’re no longer constantly hiding shit from John – okay, that’s a lie, you totally still do. You keep back how much you miss him, and how you wonder what holding his hand would be like. You hold back your invasive questions, how you wonder how happy him and Molly are, and what planning a family is like. You hold back how, even though impossible, you wish that kid on the way were yours. You’ve never voiced it, but you always kind of wanted to be a father; not that you’d exactly make a very good one, but that’s not the point, it never seems to be with these things. “The heart wants what the heart wants” echoes through your mind, and you think you proofread one too many of Rose’s papers in college, all resulting in the use of a cliché for actual analytical purposes.  
So yes, you’re keeping a few things from John, but these days, you feel less like you’re hiding your whole world – like behind your shades and beneath your skin is a whole universe of orchestral imaginations and perseverance of the most bittersweet quality. Now it’s more like a house, one under lock and key for safety and comfort of the neighbors, who only get to see you watering your lawn and giving them a brief nod and thumbs up. Sometimes there are parties, but only on the porch or backyard, none of that indoor horseshit, too much to ruin, too much shit that could ruin something else.  
You’re also noticing as the months pass that his whole 26-year-old virgin thing isn’t exactly cutting it. Yeah, you’re loyal to the love of your life and all that pansy-ass fuckery, but you’d be a shit-eating liar if you said you haven’t tried it with others in the past. You’ve gotten so far as a perfumey hotel room, shirts tossed on the itchy carpet, and mouths grazing against golden, pale, olive, ebony, skin. You’ve been told before that for as far as you go, you’re damn good at what you do, but that’s just it. As far as you go. The farthest it’s ever led is somewhere under the moniker of second base, at which point you see the gasping face of the man you picked up at the bar sometime earlier, but it’s never actually his face you see. You see scrunched black eyelashes, and teeth overlapping slightly-pink lips. You see sweat-tousled, so soft hair as the head is thrown back – until the voice isn’t his.  
You’ve tried so hard to simply shallowly enjoy the act. After all, looking at the way you were raised, it’s nowhere near ludicrous for your morals to exclude aversions from most explicit acts. And maybe if you weren’t in love, you could have, maybe it would have been a world of ease, but each time it simply stung, and ached, and ended only with a displeased half-night-stand partner, and an awkwardly emotional jerk off session later to remove the evidence.  
But regardless, your right hand isn’t working as much these days, and it’s getting pretty fucking annoying. No, you aren’t some King of Sex (though Bro would like you to be, from the way he always asks about what dudefriends you’ve brought home since you last saw him. It should be noted that thus far, Bro and Rose are the only ones who’ve picked up on your orientation), and no, you don’t find it to be some necessity of life. Your sex drive is just your sex drive – but for how simple it is, you sure fucking wish it had as simple of a solution, which is nowhere in sight, at least not for you.  
Because even with all these thoughts of fucking and getting down to the nasty (you really should be working, not thinking about this), it’s never hot, because it always comes down to some teenage angsty contemplation of how John Egbert got down to it before you, and not with you. It’s always the same horrific visualizations, and a stomach filled with envy and disgust. And even with your right hand, you feel filthy for picturing him, someone who in that state wants nothing to do with you, and never has. Yet, what else can you do?  
But that’s that, and despite your issues with it and despite your body’s frustration from it, there isn’t much you can do, so you let those stubborn thoughts fade out yet again, and actually manage to get some work done. For a few minutes, but then your phone is ringing, and your tired bones force together and apart in a stubborn movement to retrieve it.  
“Yo.”  
“Dave, d-dave!” you hear come from the other line. It’s Egbert, and he sounds… like he’s crying, but not like when he’s called you before crying because of nightmares and you’ve been the one he turned to (you wonder if he still has them, you wonder if he cries to Molly now, a person who has no idea what it was all like), he sounds different.  
“Huh?” is all you eloquently breathe out, thinking you know what’s going on. Things have been alright between the two of you, increasingly so, and it may have even got a little less painful, despite your frustration and your crushed dreams. But you can’t help but sit up a bit stiffly in anticipation.  
“I-I’m a father!” and it’s so beautiful. It hurts that you aren’t along with him, that this is another stage of his life that he entered without, leaving you behind watching, but you can’t help but maybe smile a little bit, because no matter what your heart has to say on it, John’s gonna make the greatest fucking dad like you’ve always known he would.  
You take a deep breath. “Wow,” and now you’re at a loss for words because well, you’ve never dealt with kids or babies or anything, but the idea of that is just… amazing, and there being a little John junior means they’re gonna grow up to be the most wonderful, kind person, and even you’re a little stupefied.  
“I-I know!” and now he’s laughing and he’s just so damn happy, you think that might be part of your mindset right now, that you can’t help be upset when he’s feeling so wonderful. “Her name’s Casey and just, fuck Dave! I don’t know man, I just… wish you were here for this.”  
“Wow, what a shocker,” you chuckle, because you called it from day one, and John’s predictability is almost his most endearing factor. You say almost because you still haven’t decided what the most is. “But yeah, wish I was too bro. Save some afterbirth for me, ‘kay?”  
“Ugh, shut up Dave!” but he’s laughing, before you hear some more chatter in the background, and he laughs. “‘Kay, I gotta get goin’ for now though. I’ll call you later alright? Maybe on Skype to show you! Shit, she’s so beautiful.”  
“Sounds chill,” and your mask is wavering - it always did have a brilliant timer to it, “Get off on your pappy-mobile, see ya.”  
And the line goes dead, along with your motivation to keep up your work - replaced by wary hands at the alcohol cabinet.


	8. Babysitting

Your name is Dave Strider, you are twenty-nine years old, and you think this is the closest to being a father you’re going to get.  
Your legs are crossed on the by-now stained carpet of the Egbert residence, swinging your hands as they’re going with the now three-year-old Casey while she swings back and forth on wobbley legs. Blathering at you in toddler dialect she says, “An’ I ‘ave t’ show you all the ghosties daddy got me!”  
“Yeah, yeah, you showed me on the call on the computer, remember? Your ghosts are sweet,” you’re laughing a bit - you laugh around this kid almost as much as you do around John.  
She’s huffing and planting her chubby little fists on sundress-clad hips at you, “Tha’s not the same, silly!”  
Another smile, “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t know I was dealing with the International Ghostie Specialist.”  
“Well, y’are!” and she’s off into the toy bin, scavenging for every last stuffed ghost John’s apparently gifted her with.  
It’s funny, you predicted something like this years ago - as soon as Molly and John became “The Egberts” you figured you’d end up watching their on-the-way child constantly. When the days of it came closer, you realized how ludicrous is was, because despite your decent amount of travel funds, you are far away, and it’d honestly just be way easier for them to get a nearby babysitter. And that was the plan - until you met her at six months, that is.  
First thing, she took a liking to you. Her big infant eyes stared up at you as her fingers clenched around the fabric of your black button-up, and she had refused to let go. By the time she was able to frequently talk, she always demanded that when her parents were out, she be watched by her “Uncle Davey” because he was her “favorite”. It was a shock to everyone, but mostly you, seeing as you’d always been less-than-frequent about interacting with kids, so it made no sense for one to like you so much.  
But then again, she was like her dad, so you guess it makes sense that you’re her best friend too.  
Not that you really mind anyway, it’s always nice being able to hang out with Casey when the ‘rents are out; it keeps your mind busy instead of dwelling on how great their weekend getaway must be. She’s young enough too that she still likes falling asleep with you on the couch, and really, that’s just great. You’d never admit it, but you really fucking hate sleeping alone - the few times John used to fall asleep next to you were just, really great.  
“So this un’s green, and this un’s pink, and this un’s white! Daddy won’t let me bring th’ white one to the table cause I might stain ‘im,” and she’s giggling, making you hold and squeeze each one to see how soft they are.  
You raise your eyebrows and have her lean in, like you’re going to tell her a secret. You then lean to whisper in her ear, saying, “Listen, don’t tell your dad, but if you’re real chill today, you can take the white ghostie to the table when we eat some pizza tonight. Sound cool?”  
And she’s jumping and clapping before leaping into your lap. “Yaaay! Thank you, Davey!”  
“But no taking them in the bath with you.”  
“Aww, come on!”  
You find yourself always really enjoying her company. She makes you feel special, like you’re important to someone. You know you aren’t her dad, or anything like that (even though you’d sure as hell like that), but the way she treats you and the way you get to play around with her is the way you imagine most parents do with kids (you wouldn’t know with the way you were brought up, but you guess Bro was kind of just a really big, badass kid who wasn’t quite sure how to play yet.)  
You’re watching Casey for the weekend right now, because it’s been four years now since the lovely couple got married (a very important day that you like to forget if you can), and they wanted a weekend alone. John smiled at you before he left, telling you he was nervous and it was going to be a good one, but you have no fucking idea what that could’ve meant. Was he going to beg her for oral or something? You don’t fucking know.  
Things have both been easier and harder in the John department - easier because you’re getting better at managing your feelings (at least you think so), and harder because any slight reference to them makes John a little awkward and ask if they’re still there. You say no, but you figure he knows you’re lying because he keeps on asking.  
“Daaaavey! When ya ord’rin’ pizza?” Casey yelps after some time making you play ghosties with her, grabbing your hands to swing with yet again.  
You chuckle, standing up and hoisting her up into your arms. “Right now. Stop readin’ minds, kid, god,” you say, shaking your head before switching her into one arm to scuffle your phone out of your pocket, and order one up. Really, it’s mostly just for you - she can only manage so many pieces, and even then you have to cut them up into little edible bits for her. Things like this always make you wonder if Bro did them for you, or if he even knew to. You sure as hell didn’t until Molly gave you a third degree on every little safety precaution. Honestly you throw most of them out the window, but you admit having her not choke is probably for the best.  
Somewhere during the call to Domino’s, she managed her way out of your one arm, and is now resting on your shoulders with her chin on your head. You pull her down, noogying her black head of hair. “You have some potential kid, maybe it’s about time I start training you,” you jest, though not entirely. You’ve totally thought about bringing this kid up nice and tough - until you remember that she isn’t yours to bring up.  
And she keeps playing along with you, trying to pinch your cheeks because she’s learned by now that it really pisses you off, and you even let her a time or two. Time passes quickly when you’re taking care of her. So much so that you only barely notice through the front door’s window that a car is pulling up, and you hear a slamming of cardoors.  
“Look’s like our grub’s here, kid,” you affirm, seeing her clap excitedly, and carry her over to the door to open it, even before the pizza guy gets the chance to ring the doorbell.  
But it’s not the pizza guy, it’s Molly and John walking up the doorstep, and you’re terribly confused because it’s only Saturday night. They both look quiet, and none-too-happy.  
“Mommy, daddy!” Casey exclaims, reaching her arms out to both of them. John goes to gather her on up, a sad smile on his face (God you just want to hold him like you’ve been holding Casey, you want to know what’s wrong and you want to make it all better again). But before he gets the chance, Molly’s snatching her away first, going to walk up the stares silently.  
John sighs, standing where he is and looking down at the sidewalk. You want to hug him, tell him that whatever happened, it’s okay, you’re here, you’ve always been here, but you can’t do that so easily. So instead you just frown, stuffing your hands in your pockets.  
“What happened?”  
He laughs, smiling that sad smile at you again. “It’s uh… kind of a long story. Sorry for making you come all the way out here when it’s been such a short stay but I… think me and Molly need some time on our own for now, I guess, haha.” And you know that’s such bullshit, and he shouldn’t just be alone, but you aren’t about to fight with him, not when he’s like this.  
“I get whacha mean, man,” you nod, patting his shoulder. “Call or pester me if ya need me, a’ight?” He nods, smiling, before leaning in to give you a hug. Not a brohug, not a quick little ‘Hey, long time no see!’ hug, just a real, honest, hug. And it’s the best thing you could ask for as you hug him back, patting his coated back heartily.  
Then you’re leaving, hands back in your pockets after you’ve grabbed your things hastily. He waves at you, before closing the door behind him.  
And it hurts that there isn’t more you can do, but that’s that, and you know that’s all there is to it. So you’re driving off in your rental car, trying to find a decent hotel to crash at until your flight on Monday.


	9. Lost

Your name is Dave Strider, you are twenty-nine years old, and you are waking up in an unfamiliar bed as the afternoon sunlight pours in between floral curtains.  
Groggy and your mouth filled with mucous, you sit up, wiping your eyes and systematically returning your sunglasses to their place on your face. You were sleeping just fine after you stayed up half the night (filled with worry and thoughts and maybe you should get work done you’d think, no you can’t you couldn’t not in a state like that), so you are currently wondering why exactly you even woke up.  
On the oak nightstand beside your bed is your phone, lit up and vibrating furiously against the wood, and you’re yawning into your hand as you reach over for it, processing it as a call due to its continuous vibration.  
“Yo,” you breathe mid-yawn, before going the scratch the back of your head.  
“H-hey! …Oh sorry, did I wake you up?”  
It’s John.  
“Yeah, but it’s like… 3 o’ clock oh jesus. So yeah it’s chill. ‘Sup?”  
“I uhm… are you still in town?” he laughs nervously, and you wonder again what the hell might’ve happened.  
“Yeah, I’m at the Hilton downtown, why?”  
“Oh! Uh… could I head over and talk to you?” and he sounds so freaked out, wiping all your fatigue away as only concern takes its place.  
You’re standing up to put a shirt on as you hurriedly say, “Yeah, yeah of course. I’ll be down in the lobby to meet you, sound chill?”  
“Yeah! Thanks, haha. See ya!” And the line goes dead.  
—-  
You’re sitting on the hotel-provided furnished bench in the lobby, watching the revolving doors spin ‘round and ‘round with each new person walking in to check in, waiting eagerly for the familiar face you care so much for to walk right in the door.  
Something terrible must’ve happened with Molly, you know it, you just can’t put your finger on what. For the past four years, they’ve not spent more than a day apart, and even then had been for work or friends’ bachelor and bachelorette parties (“Haha, Dave, when will yours be?”), not because of any fights. You mean, you’re sure they’ve had some fights but, they’ve never been this bad, and you’ve never seen John look so defeated. Are things really that hopeless for him?  
And then finally there he is, hands in his pockets as he looks around, biting his lower lip nervously. Until then, his eyes rest on you, and you see a wave of relief flush through him (and your heart’s beating faster, God you hate that this is when you’re happy but it’s the greatest feeling in the world). He walks toward you, smiling and waving. “Here!”  
“No shit, Sherlock,” you chuckle, patting his back (something you aren’t sure if you’d normally do, but he seems like he needs all the affection he can get, and Hell, you’re more than happy to extend a comfortable amount) and going to lead him to the elevator.  
“Why’d you get such a nice place?” he blinks, looking around the hotel with wide eyes.  
Tapping the up button on the elevator, you shrug. “They had open rooms, and my flight’s not ‘til Monday. May as well crash in style. Not like I can’t afford it, y’know?”  
He’s nodding before the two of you step into the elevator, and the rest of the trek to your room is silent. You don’t like this one bit - it’s not like John to be silent. Sometimes when he’s busy he’ll be unresponsive and you’ll have to bug the shit out of him to get his attention back to conversing, but he’s just standing there. Silent.  
By the time you make it to the room, he’s walking in, tiredly sitting on the provided chair with his legs spread, elbows on his knees, and head in his hands, taking his glasses off tiredly to mess his hair before replacing them and looking up at you. “Geez, sorry I’m being such a downer right now, haha.”  
“No man, it’s chill. Be as down in the dumps as you fucking please,” you say, going to sit on the edge of the bed facing him. “But in exchange you’re pretty much obligated to tell me the whole truth about what the hell’s going on. That sound just?”  
“You’ve been talking to Terezi again,” he’s laughing, leaning back in his chair, trying to loosen up, you think. “But alright, let’s see where to start,” he says, rubbing at his eyes. He looks so tired - you don’t think he slept one wink last night. Which would make sense with how Molly was acting, you wonder if she even let him share the bed with her that night. Even if she did, if she was being standoffish the poor guy was probably too nervous to get a wink of sleep.   
Your hand is on your shoulder as you’re standing, and you’re shaking your head. “It can wait, you look like you could use some Z’s.”  
“I… uh, here?” You nod. “Are you sure? I mean…”  
“Come on, you know I know you got zero sleep last night,” his eyes widen, “So just crash. I’ll work or watch some TV while you do, ‘cause you’re a hard as hell sleeper. ‘kay?” And you’re already pulling him standing up, pushing him over onto the bed. “You can even use my pajamas if you want.”  
He raises his eyebrows at you, “You don’t wear pajamas, you sleep in your boxers. Or have you gotten lamer than when we last spent the night together?” He’s joking around and it’s not forced - you can already tell he’s beginning to calm down, and it’s really nice.  
“I packed some for when Casey curls up with me, dipshit,” you say, going to gather out your T-shirt and sweatpants, tossing them at him.  
Already changing, he laughs at you. “Didn’t think you were the type to get all cuddley with kids!”  
“Hey, the Case meister is the exception to all rules, you know that.”  
“Shut up, I’m going to bed.” And with that he’s already curled up under the sheets, comfortable in your pajamas. You sit in the chair he was just in, waiting until you can tell he’s fast asleep to turn the television on.  
Somewhere during today’s riveting episode of some talk show you don’t give two shits about, John starts making noise. Not “I’m getting up” noise, or “I’m getting comfortable” noise, but honestly thrashing and practically screaming in his sleep. You haven’t seem him like this since he last fell asleep on your lap in college, and it affects you just as much as it did then (terrifying, rip-your-heart-out fear of your own for this poor kid, boy, man). You’re getting up faster than you’d ever admit before you’re on the bed with him, picking up his torso and pulling it to you, petting his hair and rubbing his back. It feels like a routine left alone too long, a bike from the old apartment complex’s garage - familiar, something you’ll never forget, but covered in dust and rust.  
He continues shaking, but after a few minutes of your thumb smoothed over his forehead, his breathing evens out, and he’s just calmly sleeping in your arms, looking as beautiful as ever. You find yourself wondering again if Molly ever does this for him, if she even knows to do it. You doubt it, and that feeling of specialty warms your esteem for at least a moment, letting you continue petting this poor, frightened boy you adore for a little while longer.  
After some time he wakes, stirring and squirming in his position half-on-your-chest-half-on-your-lap, and yawning as he rubs at his eyes. You retrieve his glasses for him, handing them to him, and a bit nervous that he’ll freak out at your position. You mean, you’ve always done these sorts of things with him to comfort, but not since before he knew and you hope that doesn’t just, ruin things.  
But no, he’s not freaked, he’s not disgusted, he’s just a little puzzled, blinking those pretty little eyelashes up at you. “Why ‘re you here…?” he slurs out, still tired from sleep.  
“Nightmare business again,” is your simple response as you lean against the headboard, not sure if this is a queue to leave or to continue, so you remain neutral.  
He blinks again, seeming surprised. “I think that’s the first time I haven’t woken up from one in a while. Molly always shakes me awake…” he purses his lips, going from thoughtful to sad in an instant, and you aren’t sure if it’s because of Molly, her usual gesture, or both. Your money’s on both.  
“Yeah, I guess,” you shrug, not sure what else to say. “Ya seemed to sleep alright though.” He nods, smiling a little again. God, you’d do anything for that smile.  
And the two of you sit in general contentment again for a little while, his head moved to laying completely on your lap (but oh fuck that’s still so great and you think that maybe your heart is going to fall out of your chest god dammit god dammit god dammit). He’s making fun of you for your choice of channel, nagging you to get the remote and let him check the movie selection. Finally you give in, stretching your arm (you refuse to move this position, you’d never leave if you could) to retrieve it for him. “Just don’t pick anything stupid.”  
And you expect him to pick City of Angels when it comes up on the menu, but he keeps searching, and you aren’t sure for what, until one of the many editions of SB&HJ comes up and he selects it. You can’t help but smile a bit, even when he makes fun of it excessively (of course he does, you wonder why not everyone does) and everything’s going so perfectly, him picking your movie while laying in your lap, that you can’t help but feel like this isn’t just some stupid dream, one that’s even worse than the nightmares because of the feeling you wake up with in the morning, when the place in bed beside you is empty.  
But this is no dream, and yet you find no relief in that, because either way, it’s going to draw to a close. As your movie ends, you think you can already see that time coming - no happiness to remain untainted.  
“So I… about Molly.”  
You look down at him, seeing him staring straight ahead (in his position, this meaning your knee), and you want to pet his hair and lean down to kiss the top of his head, but you can’t, because you know even this is almost too much, and you aren’t about to overstep your boundaries any further.  
“Yeah?”  
“Well, I decided that… after four years of being married maybe, now would be a good time to tell her about the game?”  
Oh God.  
“And well I… haha, she didn’t… take it well…”  
Fuck, fuck, he didn’t.  
“Shit man. What happened exactly?”  
“We were at the resort, being all lovey dovey and I was like,” he shifts in your lap to curl up a little, a habit he has saying he’s feeling less and less secure. “‘So remember that thing from when I was younger I never told you about?’ and she was so excited to hear! So I figured, y’know, it’d all go great, right?”  
You nod, listening to the train about to wreck with a ball in your throat.  
“And I did and she… didn’t believe me, I guess?” he’s laughing the most hollow, painful laugh and it cracks the edges of your heart. “So I told her she could ask any of you because, you all were there and that I was serious and all this was… really, super important to me.” He’s taking a deep breath, obviously working on his composure. “But when I said that, she said you guys probably brainwashed me or… something, I don’t know, she was getting kind of, hysterical, if that’s what you’d call it.”  
And he continues his story, but each little detail is terrible, hearing how she shied away and how he kept trying (and you’d never say this but you think that by doing that, he was pushing her away, and no matter how sweet she is or whatever, that was bound to happen. She just wasn’t there.) and fuck you wish it didn’t have to be like this.  
But there’s nothing you can do.  
So you just hoist him back up and hold him as he begins to cry.


	10. Unknown

Your name is Dave Strider, you are twenty-nine years old, and you did not expect to be negotiating for a second ticket on your flight back down south.  
“Come on, there has to be a couple of nearby seats left, or even just at least one damn little seat,” you’re saying in exasperation to the none-too-helpful employee at the airport, as she twirls her hair and pops her bubblegum.  
“You really should’ve planned this sooner, sir,” she’s shaking her head and tapping into the computer, seemingly not very happy to be at work in the first place, much less actually working at work. “I guess if you’re fine with switching out of first class—“  
Your palm meets your forehead. “I already told you that that’s perfectly fucking fine. Just get me the seats.”  
She rolls her eyes at you, as if you’re being the unreasonable one, but keeps clicking, and soon a couple of tickets are printing. “There you are. Will that be all, sir?”  
You check your bags quickly, before turning around to face a very tense John, who smiles and waves when he sees you headed his way. “Get everything going good?”  
“Yeah,” you sigh with exasperation, adjusting your sunglasses. “Let’s go.”  
“Oh uh – was it hard? Sorry, man, haha,” he laughs nervously at you, giving his usually (adorable) dorkish grin.  
You shrug, going to pick up both your carry-ons and start walking. “It’s no big deal, employee was just annoying as shit. I don’t know what the hell it is about bubblegum, but it turns already annoying people into the most unbearable people on the fucking planet.”  
“Molly really likes bubblegum.”  
Aw fuck.  
You’d almost forgotten why John was with you on this venture in the first place (not really, but it wasn’t at the forefront of your mind until this moment). After the… issue, Molly still wasn’t feeling too comfortable about the situation (especially about having ‘her’ daughter around the either of you), so the ‘happy’ couple thought it best for John to stay somewhere else for a week or so (or well, Molly thought so) while Molly got her bearings. You quickly offered that he could fly down with you, then you’d fly him back when the both of them were ready. They were very grateful – though Casey was very displeased with the fact that she didn’t get to follow her father on a trip to stay with Davey (Molly didn’t look too happy to hear that).  
So here he is, standing across from you in the bustling airport, as you stare at his downcast gaze with worried eyes. With the way things are going, you aren’t sure if Molly is going to simply take him back, or if this is over – all because John saved the world, and she couldn’t believe it, couldn’t value the most heavenly person she ever had the chance to be with, ever would. (You can’t blame her, it is a hell of a lot to swallow, but you still aren’t happy with her. ) And you aren’t sure which you’re hoping for. You want her to, because it would kill John to not be with her (the way not being with him is slowly killing you), and it can’t be good for Casey at all. She deserves the stereotypical postcard family, the one that none of you but Molly got the chance to grow up with. But at the same time, you can’t help but hope she becomes out of the picture, so you can be there, and then maybe John will open his eyes and –  
Who are you kidding? The ship has never even come near the dock; it sailed and has been sailing since before the chance even made itself apparent to you. Molly is all that will be good for him, for Casey. You can only hope for the best for that.  
“Come on, we got a flight to catch.”  
He nods, following after you like a puppy that’s lost his master, and you can hardly contain the sick feeling that overcomes you.  
You’ve settled into your loft, and given John your bed while you crash on the couch on the other side of the apartment.  
“It’s your bed though—“  
“Take the damn bed, Egbert, or so help me God, I will retrieve the shitty sword collection and we will put them to good use.”  
A broken laugh.  
A broken smile from your own face in return.  
Things are going relatively alright though as he settles in. You’ve locked the alcohol cabinet, tidied the place to a respectable level, and locked up anything else he doesn’t need to see (old and new journals as per Rose’s advice) and overall, it’s simply all as it ought to be. You are already aware you will have a few struggles but, having John to yourself for a week is bound to be great, you think.  
You check things online quickly, the both of you, and end up Skype calling with both Rose and Jade. Jade’s excited as ever, waving happily and showing you the new artifacts she’s found. Rose is also in a relatively good mood, the both of you having caught her during a break from her writing. She has that same look at you from the wedding day though, and you want to smack her and tell her you got this, but that can’t happen for a number of reasons. Jesus Lalonde.  
And for once you honestly think “you got this”. You know of all the obstacles that will face you, you’re not an idiot, but you think that as long as it’s just him, you can overcome any stupid feelings. You have been for seventeen years, haven’t you?  
Well, it seems that distance does make the heart grow fonder.  
You’re suddenly remembering all the gentle complications from when you two lived together, and they are a dozen times worse now that you’ve been apart so long. After he showers, he likes to sit around in just his sweatpants, letting his chest and hair properly dry off first (and you’re realizing that even when nearing middle age, he keeps in shape, and his broad chest is almost too much). He also enjoys cooking for you, and reaching out the spoon to your mouth for you to taste test it just before it’s done (fuck he is about the most adorable thing you’ve ever experienced). He bites his nails while he watches television with you, and even when you know he’s in the worst pain he’s felt in years, his laugh rings through the loft. Wrestling cheers him up, and feeling your skin so very close to his both soothes you and makes you want to deaden your nerves so they can never be hurt by the eventual removal again. He’s so friendly – he has no problem being close to you and you’re more than willing to take that as thanks.  
But it’s beginning to become too much, when it’s already Wednesday and you’ve won another tussle, pinning him to the ground with your legs on either side of his, hands forcing down his shoulders, both your chests heaving, and your mouths just inches away.  
And you just can’t handle it anymore, hurtling yourself off him without a word as you, almost robotically, beeline for the kitchen, unlocking the alcohol cabinet.  
“Haha, you didn’t count, stupid! Why are you—“ and he cuts off, obviously not affected by it (or maybe he’s acting that way? No, that’s not it, you’re not an idiot, not a lovesick idiot with too much hope.) as he peers at you questioningly. “Uh, Dave, what’re you doing?”  
You don’t answer as you pour out a couple of glasses, getting the both of you drinks. You figure if he doesn’t want one, then he can decline and you’ll take two. Somewhere in the back of your head is a nagging voice, telling you what a horrible idea this is, but you can’t seem to bring yourself to care.  
Several drinks for the both of you later, you’re laughing uproariously, stumbling around the living room until you collapse on the couch, spilling out some of your drink onto the expensive fabric (you can’t seem to bring yourself to care). John’s following suit, falling right on top of you and laughing along with you at something you can’t seem to bring yourself to remember.  
Your whole body feels warm from alcohol’s embrace, along with that of the man who’s lazily atop you. The two of you are talking but coherence has long fled from the both of you, and in this you feel that’s alright. This week can’t last forever but, with the way that happiness is pooling at the bottom of your belly, you need it to last as long as you can make it.  
He’s getting shakey with his knees settled just so atop your legs, and he snorts, making some punchline-less jokes about his instability up there. You grab his sides to steady him, laughing as well, and not even caring as he removes your glasses to analyze them for whatever reason he deems sensible at the time. You’re just staring at him, clarity evened with the lack of sunglasses but with the confusion of intoxication, and you’re leaning closer to get a better look at the newly revealed shade of his eyes, and he stumbles again and –  
Your lips meet, and it’s those fireworks from that one brief moment years ago all over again. Your fingers are curling into his shirt on the sides where your hands still remain, and you think – you think that maybe you feel him kissing you back. And it’s all you’ve ever hoped for all in one, single, blissful, moment.  
But perfection only lasts so long as he falls back from it, laughing, “D-dave, haha! That wasn’t very… smooth.” And even in your lack of sobriety you know how little sense that makes right now, but you can’t help but laugh along with him.  
Soon he’s poking at your chest, giggling some to himself still (after all, he’s a happy drunk, while you’re a volatile drunk, and it surprises you that you haven’t hit the waterworks stage yet) as he stays shockingly close. “Ya know wha’s funny, Dave?”  
You’re raising your eyebrows, your expression honest yet heavy with the taste of Vodka and the lack of shades to hide just a single inch.  
“I used t’… have a crush on you, back in high school. Didja, didja know that?”  
No, you didn’t.  
And John seems more confused than he has this whole drunken stumble when you hide your face in your hands and cry.


	11. Think

— turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 10:08 —  
TG: rose  
TT: Yes, dear?  
TG: fucking fuck fuck fuck fcuk  
TT: Oh no.  
TG: john had  
TG: he had a fucking crush on me  
TG: god fucking   
TT: Oh dear, he told you.  
TG: yeah when we were wa  
TG: wait  
TG: you   
TG: you fucking knew and you didnt tell me  
TG: yeah thats just  
TG: thats just great skipping through a field of daisies right now because of how fucking HAPPY i am to hear that yeah ill send you pix later  
TT: He told me after he found out of your own feelings. It would not have been to your benefit then - about the same scenario as is.  
TG: fuck fine i guess but maybe it wouldve saved me a couple hundred nights of throwing away my fucking dignity down the drain to watch it spiral out of control   
TG: until im just a pathetic mess thats been living his life over some hopeless shit that  
TG: oh wait i did have hope once but i didnt know that so its all just  
TG: gone  
TG: hope and dignity best friends run away down the drain   
TG: along with my dinner from last night brb  
TT: Oh dear, a hangover, I take? You really need to learn to keep your drink.  
TG: yeah fuck you too  
TT: I wasn’t using the most tact that, it was intended to perhaps spur a chuckle out of you.  
TG: not in a very chuckles n giggles mood right now in case you havent fucking noticed  
TT: Right right. Where is John at?  
TG: hes sleeping like a fucking rock remember he does that after he drinks  
TT: I don’t keep tabs on all his quirks like you do. But yes, you have a point.  
TT: Is he on the couch then?  
TG: no i gave him my bed for the week  
TT: What a gentleman.  
TG: yeah im one hell of a knight in shining armor   
TG: captain morgan is my stead and i have the sword of absolut  
TG: oh wait those dont help me they kick my ass my bad  
TT: You are the one who continues drinking.  
TG: yeah shut up youre not a great drunk either and you drink even more than i do  
TG: but anyway i woke up with him this morning it was just peaches and cream until i got my memory back  
TG: like usual  
TT: Ohoho.  
TG: oh yeah all the bed rustlin all night  
TG: no i doubt it was that  
TT: He was probably trying to comfort you.  
TG: yeah see dignity down the drain again  
TT: There is nothing wrong with being comforted. I have been a bit of a “smartass” throughout this conversation, but this is merely due to your aversion from comfort of traditional format.  
TG: yeah i know im not an idiot  
TT: Would you like some traditional comfort at this time?  
TG: i wonder how caseys doing.  
TT: Changing the subject, of course.  
TT: I am not the type to aid false hope, and I have been the first to say restraint is key in your situation.  
TT: But with the way things are going, I think keeping your options, and hopes open within the next while would be in your best interest. You never know - and I feel like due to your pattern this will be a “until death” sort of deal.  
TT: You may as well give it your best shot. “Kiss the girl” so to speak.  
TG: we kissed last night  
TT: I wasn’t expecting such an immediate, or literal, exaction of my advice.  
TG: yes i used my time powers and saw in the future that you would give me this advice and then thought  
TG: oh this will cause part of the problem in the first place  
TG: lets do it  
TT: Well, did he kiss you back?  
TG: yeah that means nothing  
TT: Strider.  
TG: lalonde  
TT: He kissed you back.  
TG: and  
TT: All I’m saying is, think about it.  
— tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 10:25 —


	12. New Wings

Your name is Dave Strider, you are thirty years old, and you’ve been “thinking about it”.  
Your mind has been more or less made a warzone - torn apart to shreds, emptied, filled, emptied again, all to give your very best attempts at fucking figuring this shit out. You have wracked your brain, looking at it from every possible angle. You admit that the… kiss, could have meant something - mainly due to the aforementioned returning, as well as his further mentioning of the crush. That combination had to mean something… right? Sure, he said past tense, but there’s just a small, small chance he was convincing himself of it due to Molly, right? Maybe he’d been going through the same trials you had, just he was a married man and -  
This is the part where it always gets hard, where the difficulty has risen every night for as long as you’ve been thinking, thinking. It’s the part where you tense up and shake just so with worry, with the fear that these hopes will put you standing right on a skyscraper’s ledge, ready to either take flight (almost like those tragic orange wings from a surreal reflection you try too hard to not remember), or, come falling down to the frying concrete. Until now, you’ve been cowering in the middle of the roof, staring at a ledge that told you nothing but too-real gravity and its imminent baggage along with it. What with what’s been presenting the past eighteen years, it really made sense that the sky was never meant for you (it never has been, not for anything). And you continue to shake, as that thought you’ve been so sure of is not so sure (are you justified?).  
Despite your shaking and your glued together teeth, you’re stepping to brave the ledge.  
It’s nearing the Christmas season when you’re next with John (you’re looking into every gesture every word before they even grace reality’s seams, you weren’t like this when Rose first made you think, but now you are and now you can’t stop) and in the bitter December chill you’re unloading box after box from a tell-tale moving truck.  
Molly and John tried to make things work - but according to what you’ve heard from Casey in your occasional phone calls (she always sneaks on when you talk to John and then he gives you two some privacy, because Casey demands it), “Mommy doesn’t really talk to Daddy no more, ‘e’s sad and Iun like it.” You understand the woman’s disbelief, but it really doesn’t sit right with you that anyone could simply cut John out like that (not to mention poor Casey getting tied up in it). You try to take into thought that you’re biased, so you ought to try your best to sympathize, thinking how it would be alarming, should you perceive them so, to find the one you’ve been so intensely in love with to be without the sanity you knew them to have and depended on in your own hectic life. But then again, maybe you’re the insane one because it’d make no difference to you. John could tell you today that he wanted you two to make a rocket ship out of puppet ass to fly to the moon and you’d be behind him every step of the way (though you’d complain and you’d make fun of him, he’d know your support was full).  
But regardless, those two are now ‘separated’, and John’s gotten himself a little place across town. Should the divorce go through, you aren’t sure how much custody Molly wants. You know John would want equal, so Casey can have both parents, and it’d only really be fair. You’d like that also, so it’s easier for all of them, no extra effort on anyone’s part (being a single parent must be tough shit), and everyone still has their family. It’d be okay, you think.  
Yet you find yourself wondering how John’s going to hold up when you head back home (having come up here in an instant when we called you, shakey, asking for help moving out), and he’s then left in this lifeless new home, the white walls staring back at him as his family is gone.  
You don’t think you’ll have the heart to take the plane ride back.  
Hands on the last box from the very frontend of the truck, you heave it into the too vacant home, thus far only showing some furniture and unloaded boxes. You were the muscle, while he emptied and organized everything (you offered the reverse, to save him the pain of too-soon reminders, but he insisted. You do have to admit to yourself that that was probably for the best, given your growing desire to shatter all Molly-associated items into forgotten, miserable, bits.) so he’s on his shins, looking through pictures, having the most pathetic look on his face that you’ve ever seen. So you naturally do the only thing you know to do.  
You walk over and collapse on his lap, back of your hand over your forehead in a dainty motion as you monotonously whine, “Oh Egbert, so much lifting, I don’t think I can go on,” and a dramatic headfall, “Oh fuck, oh god, don’t forget me.” He’s laughing and pushing you off of him, while you continue your pitiful act and smother yourself closer. “How could you be so cruel to a dying man, John, how could you.”  
He’s on top of you now, trying to tickle you or something to show his irritation, he doesn’t seem to have really thought it through. But you’re quickly flipping your positions, rising a “So much for a dying man!” out of him, and then spurring another good wrestle, you trying to be conscious of the many boxes surrounding your floor arena. This seems to be a constant with you two, but for both your aching hearts, a bashing of familiarity is bliss, if only for an instant.  
And soon you find yourself as you were last, settled over top him and your heart pounding out of your chest, only now you are sick with this new thing called hope and alcohol cannot save you this round (and if you’re going to be honest, aside from distraction, it has never really saved you). You try to remain as was, but you feel his pulse under your fingers, you see his breath escaping over his laps (they look so soft they feel so soft you remember you remember). You want nothing more than to simply lean down and take those lips as yours. Some part of you is saying it’s free game, he’s technically unmarried (separated, but close enough to be honest), but even before any relationship he was off limits, so you have to stop yourself. And in stopping yourself, you’re restraining your breathing as always, staring down at the love of your life, and doing nothing.  
The awkward silence continues as your lack of movement, or words, surprises him, until he decides to make better of it (and take advantage of it), with his fingers curling into your sides and forcing an erupting, bubble of a laugh out of your throat. You aren’t sure if the feeling that wafts over you is painfully bitter, or painfully sweet, but the usual “bittersweet” doesn’t seem to quite cover it.  
Over the course of the evening, you think that your being here is really helping and that, that helps you. You see him smile (when he doesn’t and even when he does it breaks your heart) and you hear him laugh and for his first night in his new home, you think it’s probably really really good to have someone with him - and maybe it’s actually good for once that you care so fucking much, because maybe that’s why you’re able to make it special, whether he remembers or not.  
Thinking like this, you think about how great it’d be if you could stay like this - every night, keep him company and never let him be lonely. Help take care of Case when he got too tired, maybe even clean for once (pshh).  
Even if it’s just you daydreaming while setting the place up, thinking domestically like that is, kind of nice. And maybe, maybe you’re beginning to grow your wings.


	13. Angel

Your name is Dave Strider, you are thirty years old, and you’re afraid you’re falling into too familiar a pattern.  
It’s been a week since since you helped John settle in. With Christmas now only a few short days away, he somehow (okay there honestly wasn’t very much difficulty at all) roped you into spending it with him. Throughout said time you’ve thus far spent alongside him, Casey’s been staying alone with Molly, who will likely want her back for Christmas shenanigans later on, but for the time being she’ll be staying with you two. You’re sitting in the passenger seat of John’s car, outside of Molly’s house (or, what used to be their house) and it’s taking longer than you expected. You figured he’d load the kiddo on up, and you’d be right out of there (right out of this damned cold vehicle), but he’s standing just inside the doorway, talking in a manner that seems to be intently with her. Maybe she wants to be sure of all of Casey’s setup, and exactly when she’ll be back? Something like that, you think (even though, despite rational thought, your mind is flipping through all the burned-in images of their smiling, kisses faces and the gentle inside jokes they used to exchange as greetings). But that doesn’t change that you’re freezing your ass off, and John has the keys so you can’t simply switch on the heater.  
Finally, he comes out, holding his bundled-up daughter’s hand, and shimmying her into the carseat in back. You see the lines in his face are thick with thought and heavy with concern, and your stomach knots in your own for him. You wait until he’s driving to say, “You alright there, man?”  
He just nods, laughing a little to himself (and then it hits you that this was the first time he’s seen her since he moved out, since his whole life was given a piece of finality before being tossed away from him, and your heart breaks for him on top of your own shattered, and what you hoped were healing, shards). “She just had a couple worries, that’s all.”  
And of course, ever talkative and ever filterless, Casey speaks on up from the backseat, “Why doesn’ Mommy like U’cle Davey?”  
Ah, there’s the nail on the head. She probably remembers - remembers the way you’ve always looked at him, the way your lips met before her very eyes, the way you so pathetically sobbed into the fabric of her shirt as if it was all her fault (you’d like to think it was hers, but it’s yours, it’s always been yours), the way you looked at her husband in such need and adoration. She probably remembers how John jumped to you for backup on the thing that tore her family to shreds, thinking you at the root. She probably held you in a bit of skepticism for those long four years, allowing you with her child, with the love of her life, all in an attempt at trust.  
And now here you are, the man who in her eyes, deserves none of that trust by now, by her (soon to be ex)husband’s side immediately, and there to possibly take her daughter. To her, you’re like some form of incubus, here to tear apart her life and all she cares for due to your own romantic desires - not the best friend who’s doing all he can despite his demons and despite his baggage.  
You are the latter, right?  
It’s a very quiet car-ride home after that (aside from Casey blathering for some time, demanding to know why Molly dislikes her Davey so much), until you pull up at John’s new place (a place he likely wouldn’t have been able to afford without your assistance). You exit the car, going to the backdoor to hoist out Casey, covering her eyes. She gasps and clings to you, making an ‘ooh’ motion with her mouth. “Why’s my eyes c’vered?”  
“So we can surprise you with the new crib,” you say, carrying her over while John grabs her bags. “Duh, I mean, come on.”  
She’s giggling to herself but stays quiet and still for a few more moments, expecting the surprise with anticipation. You then set her down just in front of the snow at the very frontyard, uncovering her eyes. It honestly isn’t the greatest place in the world, but her eyes light up with excitement and she’s jumping. “New house, new house, new house!”  
You laugh a bit before gathering her up again, repeating the routine with the indoors, one room at a time. John makes fun of you, but the both of you just stick your tongue out at him, before promptly brofisting (to which he sighs and says you don’t need to be bros with his daughter).   
After you finish out the rooms, Casey tugs at your sleeve, blinking, “Where’s Davey’s room? Or are you gon’ sleep in the same room wif Daddy?”  
“Nah, the couch is my sweet abode for now,” you state, noogying her lightly.   
She frowns, seeming to be in thought. “But if ya live with us, you should ‘ave a room!”  
You cough on your own spit at that moment, your eyes practically popping out of your head. By the time you’ve caught your breath, Casey seems even more confused, trying to work out aloud why that wouldn’t make sense - which clearly, she says, it does make sense.  
“If I was living here, yeah,” you affirm, readjusting her in your arms. “But I gotta head back home down in ol’ Hollywood.” You hope mentioning Hollywood, even though it isn’t exactly where you live, will excite her - your career has always dazzled and amazed her.  
Unfortunately, you’re only met with wet eyes and a loud, whiney wail, as she buries her head into your shoulder. It seems she’d gotten in her head you’d be living there, and stuck with it. You admit experiencing a divorce this early in her life (God you feel so sorry for her) must be a stress that’s meant for someone way beyond her years and beyond her brain capacity, so she had to latch onto something she’d be excited for, just to make sense of it. You’re sighing and rubbing her back, not sure what else to do for the poor weepy child.  
John was setting things up in the other room before he comes hurrying into the room, concern apparent on his face and weighing him down even farther than previously. “What happened?” he questions, clearly a little panicked despite how commonplace the tears of a mere toddler likely are.  
“She uh… she’s sad I’m not gonna be livin’ here, guess she got the wrong idea,” you say a little awkwardly. You want to stay so bad, you want to live in this lovely little house, in that lovely little room, and wake up to breakfast in that lovely little kitchen, with that lovely little girl and that lovely dorky man. You want to be here to make this house a home. But despite your constant hopes and wishes (maybe he wants you here too, maybe, maybe, maybe), you don’t want to push it on him, make it odd.  
He nods a little, a slight sigh as he looks down at the ground. “Yeah, it is a shame, isn’t it, hehe,” but then he’s grabbing Casey from you, and her crying remains as was. You aren’t sure what that means - does he want you here, or is he simply rolling with Casey’s obvious declaration? Questions like this run around your head wildly and you can’t even begin to place them into the proper categories of conclusion-jumping and clearly-obviously-true.  
Regardless though, John’s picking her up to go and lay her down for a nap in her own bed, as you go to sit on the couch in the living room, and pretend to watch TV while you think, and think, and think.  
—-  
“Al… most…!” Casey says, standing up on her tippie toes to attach one little ornament up on the tree.   
This eerily reminds you of a Christmas from so many years ago, the year you lost all hope and the year Casey became the cause of that - but it’s funny, because here she is, being right at the center of what’s making you continue. Sure, her circumstances aren’t your favorite, but she’s like a little ray of sunshine, smiling at you constantly and making you feel like you can actually manage all of this.  
Hands on her sides, you lift her up just a bit so she can reach the spot she was looking for, as you mock a gasp, “Case, when’d you learn to fly. Oh my god, this is amazing.”  
She giggles after placing the ornament, trying to squirm to face you. “I’ve always been able to fly, stupid! Pchooo!” She’s learned that if she says her sound affect, you’ll raise her higher and play a brief round of airplane with her.  
“Hey, who you callin’ stupid!” and again you’re roughhousing with her after a quick round of airplane, ticking her lightly, laughing and snorting some to yourself (and you’re aware how incredibly dorkish you look right now, and you think for a brief moment that maybe that’s what just happens to Dads when they have kids, but then you realize you aren’t her Dad and you just stop thinking completely).  
“Dave, stop roughhousing with her!” John exclaims from the other side of the room, and you look up, seeing him all bundled up in a winter coat. “I thought I was your only roughhousing partner - woe is me!” he pouts pitifully, before laughing and snorting himself (maybe you picked it up from him, and suddenly you also don’t mind your dorkishness for this reason either). “But no seriously, just don’t get anyone hurt, okay? I’m heading out for some groceries to fix up Christmas Eve dinner tomorrow, be good, you kids.”  
“Who you callin’ a kid! And you’re gonna miss puttin’ the star on top!” he closes the door behind him, leaving you and Casey ‘aww’ing before the both of you laugh at one another.  
Before long though, she’s speaking up (as she always does). “Are we gon’ use a star or a angel?”  
“Do you guys normally use an angel?” You hadn’t made it there for the past couple holidays, sometimes due to inconvenience after John had just visited you for your birthday, sometimes work, sometimes Molly’s preference - it all depended. But that meant you’d missed out on what this kid was used to, tradition wise.  
“Mhm!” she nods, dead sure of this. And you chuckle, before shrugging and getting up, going to sift through the cardboard box John’s left out, labeled “CHRISTMAS” in blue-sharpi penmanship on duct tape. Sure enough, enough maneuvering through half-broken ornaments and you’ve got yourself a plastic-and-fabric angel, smoothing out her dress as you stand up.  
You then hand the topper to Casey, before grabbing her yet again and holding her up to the very top and letting her knot her little hands into the dress, setting it down right on the tree. Next you bring her down, and as soon as she’s closing than arm’s length away from your person she’s tightly latching onto you.  
Ever the poor, curious, little girl though, she seems deep in thought for a moment though, beautiful, big blue eyes (they remind you so much of John’s, especially when he was younger) staring blankly as she contemplates, before looking up at you with them. “Wha’ happened wif Mommy ‘nd Daddy?”  
Oh boy.  
First, you go to sit the two of you down, propping her on your legs comfortably. “Well, what brought this up anyway?”  
“Uh, Daddy always liked th’ star, ‘nd said stuff like, it was the star, it was ‘im, or somethin’!” You can’t help but grin, so she smiles a little too. “But mommy always liked the angel. ‘n I thought… maybe they jus’ have a lot of differences like… House stuff?”  
You take a deep breath, patting her head - not entirely sure how to handle this. “It’s uh, kinda like that. Mom and Dad are having some differences, yeah, and… Mom just isn’t really happy with Dad anymore, I don’t think. She still loves him, but I… don’t think it’s like she used to.” Did you say too much? Fuck, you don’t know anymore.  
She seems very sad to hear that, curling her fingers into the fabric of her dress. “So she won’ love him forever?”  
You shake your head, “I don’t think so.” Fuck, you aren’t supposed to shatter a kid’s hope like this, not this young, but you don’t have the heart to just lie to her.  
She nods, as if to show her acknoweldgement and her understanding, if not also her accepting, before leaning on your chest and curling up close to you. “I thought that that was how love was s’pposed to work, though…” And then she looks straight up at you, those eyes so innocent and yet so scared. “Do you think love can be forever?”  
You smile a little sadly, kissing her forehead, “I know it can.”  
And slowly, she smiles back.


	14. HD

Your name is Dave Strider, you are thirty years old, and you don’t know how you got like this.  
Last you remember, you had just put Casey to bed, getting a little worried about John’s apparent lack of appearance (you texted him, as you always do, repeating his name over and over in your dark red text, only for him to respond saying he was running more errands). With all that said and done though, you flicked on a late show, laid down on the couch you’d since become so familiar with, and let yourself slowly drift off.  
And yet, here you are, waking up fuzzily after dozing off at some unfamiliar point in time, and blinking your eyes open slowly. All around you is a sort of encompassing warmth, and you can’t quite explain it, but then, you also don’t care. But with your eyes making their way open, you squint in a brightness you aren’t used to at a far-off clock, hung lazily in the kitchen’s lowlight.  
The clock reads somewhere around 4:45, but that doesn’t explain your brief confusions, nor why the television is turned off, or why the kitchen light is even on. After a moment of your late night - or rather, early morning - fatigue moving past, and your alertness kicking in, you put the pieces together and manage to discern that you’re at John’s place (you almost thought it was your place, not because you forgot your loft doesn’t look like this, but because it’s so easy to forget that somewhere isn’t your home when it’s the only place that feels like one), and everything begins to lineup.  
You figure he ought to have flicked off the TV when you left it on (that dumb little TV that really needs upgrading, and needs cable installed on it no less), and probably left the kitchen light on from when he walked inside and unloaded the groceries (you wish you’d been awake to be able to help him with it). But you then look down at yourself, neatly tucked-in in a duck-feather blanket, crimson edges pressed neatly underneath your sides, and not to mention the pillow padded lightly beneath your head. You then glance over, the sunglasses you forgot to take off before, folded nicely on the coffee table in front of you. Next to it is a receipt that seems to be scribbled on, and despite your warmth and comfort (both in physical and in feeling the affection of a man who’s become so very fatherly in his entire being), you sit up, keeping the blanket pulled around you, picking it up.  
In a familiar blue pen on the non-typed side of the receipt is written, “don’t freeze your butt off, jeez! :B” and that’s all.   
You smile a big, tired smile, before going to lay back down and go to bed.  
—-  
In not too much time at all, it’s Christmas morning, and Casey is the first one to let everyone know about it.   
She’s running out at you in baggy pajamas and fuzzy socks, jumping onto your sleeping form on the couch and shaking you with tired hands. “Davey, davey, wake up!”  
You wake up, sure enough, groggy and going to quickly place your sunglasses over your eyes. “‘m up, ‘m up, jesus,” you grumble, going to sit up as she’s still tugging on you.  
“It’s Christmaaas!” she’s exclaiming, giggling in some of the most excitement you’ve seen from her since her birthday (was that all that long ago? You can’t really tell what’s long and short anymore - despite still being the ‘Knight of Time’ or whatever, it really blurs things together and your life is measured by such misshapen and irrelevant timeframes). “Come on, we gotta go wake up Daddy!”  
You blink before going to set your feet down on the ground off the edge of the couch, gathering her to yourself with just one arm. “Why’d ya wake me up first, ya dip? Now we’re in the living room for no reason,” you joke, but go to carry her down the hall (noting that it’s only six in the morning, jesus christ), before slowing opening the door to John’s room, and making a shooshing motion at her. You close it near silently behind you though, and set her on one side of his sleeping form, before walking your own way around him, and then you simultaneously push your weight (her force more than yours) on him. She yells, “It’s Christmaaas!”  
He yelps himself in surprise, flailing beneath the two of your pushing and nudging at him. “Okay, okay, I’m up, yeesh!” he’s sighing, going to sit up and straighten out his pajama shirt, stretching as he yawns (and you can’t help but think of how adorable he is, his back curving slightly as one arm reaches up in the stretch, the other patting his mouth as the yawn escapes).  
Soon, as they are contagious, you and Casey are yawning as well (and Casey does a similar motion, and you aren’t sure how much more of this cute you can take) before hurrying out to the living room, ready to open all the gifts from one another, as well as those ‘directly from Santa’.  
Given the circumstances, the ones meant for Casey obviously go first. They range from dolls, ghost-esque toys (she has a strange fascination with them it seems), basic accessories for her hair (which you think is John’s way of trying to get her to want that rat’s nest taken care of), and a pretty decently sized (giant) teddy bear from yours truly. She’s pretty pleased with all of them, curling up with the big stuffed animal that’s even larger than her own person. Finally though is the main gift addressed from John, which he has her close her eyes and sit on his lap for. He then slides a silver chain around her neck, fastening it nicely (despite its enormous size on her - clearly something she’s meant to keep in the years to come, and for a moment you think, the years he might not be able to keep her).  
She then opens her eyes, peering down at it with a look of amazement. “Ooh, s’so pretty!” and she smiles, grabbing the pendant with her chubby little fingers. It’s a simple blue jewel, but he stops her, laughing, and grabbing the pendant from her. “Wait, wait, look here,” he says, flipping it to the other side, which has some script which he then reads aloud, “‘Be strong, my little ghost girl. Love, Daddy’.” She then smiles a softer smile, grabbing his one big hand in her own to smile at him, saying cheerfully, “Thank you!”  
And you have to take a moment to appreciate the beauty of all this. A father who might soon lose his own daughter after just losing his wife, smiling and extending his very heart on a platter for her to keep always, and doing it in such a sweet, beautiful way. And a daughter, who despite it probably not being what she really wants this year, being able to tell it’s something bigger than just a little necklace, and accepting it seriously - so much like her old man.  
And fuck if you aren’t smiling the widest, genuine smile you ever did smile.  
But then they’re looking you, and John laughs, saying, “You look pleased.” You shrug, playing it off that, well, if your pokerface is there all the time the effect is ruined, god, how don’t you get that. And he just shakes his head, before you go to exchange the gifts addressed to the two of you. Expecting them to be simplest, Casey’s are given first, but it’s actually a joint gift - a little finger painting.  
You sit next to John to receive it, looking it over and trying to decipher what exactly everything is. She seems to notice you squinting, and though she pouts a little, she then goes to explain. Finger outstretched to point out the details, she begins, “This is ‘r new house, ‘nd this is me, ‘nd Daddy, ‘nd Davey!” She’s beaming, so happy and so pleased, and clearly hoping it’ll make the both of you so happy and so pleased. It tears you apart - because you want this to be how it is, so bad. You want to live in this house with Casey and ‘Daddy’, and you want to hang that picture up on the refrigerator so you can see it every morning when you head in to eat the breakfast John’s made for everyone. But that isn’t going to happen.  
Regardless, you both smile, thanking her and giving her the appropriate hugs and kisses in appreciation, until it’s time to exchange gifts between the two of you. John’s always been the type to not be extravagant about gifts, but to put a lot of thought into them, and get just what you’ve been wanting or needing. There’s a couple, some are just some records, the typical gifts, one’s a can of worms that while Casey is off playing with her toys still laughs at, but finally is just a quick, little gift.  
When you open it up it’s a decent-sized, very warm-looking quilt. You look up at him, appreciating it, but definitely wanting to know what exactly spurred him to get you a fucking quilt.  
He laughs, putting his hands onto the comforter as well. “It’s not much yeah, but it’s a blanket Dad got me for when I moved in here, and I remembered that back home you didn’t have one, hehe. You also always freeze your a— butt off,” he says, correcting his swearing in the presence of Casey, “so I figured it’d be good, you know?” And you flash back to when he tucked you in a couple nights back, and your heart swells with his caring, his consideration - his acknowledgment of your own little quirks. Those baby wings of hope are fluttering as you think that maybe he pays as much attention as you do, maybe he cares more than you give him credit for, and oh god you just realized how close to holding hands you are through the blanket…  
Until you clear your throat, going to pick up a big hefty box to hand him, before spreading your blanket over your legs in a silent, and true thanks. He seems to notice this, smiling and moving on, before opening the box.  
“A… TV?” he says, seemingly confused. “Dave, you know I have one already, you watch it at night.”  
“Yeah, and a pretty lame one at that,” you affirm, rolling your eyes despite him being unable to see it. “Just upgradin’ your home, dude.”  
He scoffs, going to set the box down, seemingly a little irritated and disappointed. But you have a plan, so you aren’t worried in the slightest.  
“Fine, Case can have the big hi-def TV in her room,” you say. “Ain’t that right, Casey?”  
She just hollers in excitement, throwing her arms in the air as usual. God, is she adorable.  
“Is that all?” he asks, raising his dark eyebrows, seeming to want to deal with the TV later.  
“Oh man, you wish,” you say, before pulling out an envelope, and handing it to him. He seems perplexed, but very interested, as he goes to tear the envelope open to see what’s inside. Out comes a set of tickets, all marked for plane tickets, and a set of three tickets for Disneyland, marked for around John’s birthday. He looks up at you, a little shocked - but happy, so happy. And it’s the first time you’ve seen that genuine happiness in a long time now, and you can’t help but feel like you’ve given him a small little ray of sunshine in this dreary winter he’s been facing.  
He’s laughing loudly when he throws his arms around you, pressing you against the couch back-down (and your wings are flapping behind you and your heart is beating faster but his head is pressed to your chest so you hope to God he can’t hear it increase). “Thank you, thank you! Just… fuck, Dave, you’re the best!” You laugh a little, because he can’t even control his swearing he’s so excited, and you’re bursting with happiness from this as your calloused hands reach to pat his back fondly, smiling at him in return.  
“It’s no problem, man,” you say, patting him some more, and you think you hear Casey confused, trying to understand the excitement, but you’re too busy looking down at this beautiful, maybe a little lonely, but momentarily happy man on you, and you think that maybe you feel a bit of air beneath your feet.


	15. Skyscrapers

Your name is Dave Strider, you are thirty years old, and you think finally, you’re getting your handle on everything.  
No, you aren’t where you’d like to be. You aren’t under the same roof as the man you so adore, by his side in a beautiful and loving partnership despite your flaws, and you aren’t entirely sure you ever will be. But right now, you can feel your importance to him, to the daughter you care so much for. You’ve found purpose, you’ve found the reason for your wings, and you’ll be damned if you don’t intend to use them.  
And though you aren’t about to say it’s a guarantee by any means, you, for the first time, think that maybe… something can happen. Maybe you could be the person John needs, someone he can depend on, someone who will catch him when he falls. You could help with the beautiful baby girl he’s raising, you could be there, and maybe he’d love you an ounce of how much you’ve always loved him. You could have the family you’ve always wanted, and never dreamed was a ‘part of the plan’. Maybe, maybe you can have that. And even if not quite that degree, you think you can still be happy.  
And you’re nearing a fantastic landmark - taking a rambunctious kid who deserves all the adventure the world has to offer, and her hopeless dad who needs to find the sun again, to “The Most Magical Place On Earth”.  
— tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 17:52 —  
TT: I heard about your plans with John and Casey.  
TT: I wanted to tell you a hearty “Good job”, as well as congratulate you for the new step you’ve since taken in your life.  
TG: yeah whatever its nbd  
TT: I assumed you would shrug it off, as per usual.  
TT: But you seem happy lately, it’s refreshing.  
TG: hey i am always a pile of motherfucking sunshine excuse you  
TT: Of course, my mistake. You have been completely without life’s sadness or fitful nights with an alcohol-stained tongue and a tear-stained face. My memory is not the greatest as I am aging, you see.  
TG: exactly oldbag  
TG: i have had my life under control for fucking ages  
TG: i am loaded arent i  
TT: I am facing difficulty deciphering what of this is laced with sarcasm and what is genuine, the longer our conversation persists.  
TT: But regardless, money can indeed be a gateway to happiness. However, it does not accomplish the whole job by any stretch of the imagination. As well that I am honest when I say, you’ve not called me slurring and blathering hopelessly in quite some time.  
TT: I am proud of you.  
TG: ok yeah thanks i guess  
TT: Of course.  
TT: What is on your plate this evening, though?  
It’s not something you ever display openly, but Rose’s approval on your path holds a great deal of importance to you, and it’s like that final reassurance you needed to be sure you were finally on the right track. With a gentle flap of your wings, you’ve found breath in your lungs, and your ears are filled with an orchestra of peace of mind, and it feels so damn good. Your life’s pieces are coming together, fit and nicely gluing in place.  
So when you find you cell vibrating with a photo of John’s dorky smile beaming at you, just a month or so before your expected trip with him, you’re more excited than you’d ever care to admit. You only hope that perhaps he’s looking to discuss that very trip, and being that it’s all your mind has been able to process as of late, you are far more than ready.  
“Hey, sup,” you say into the phone, having let it ring a few more times than necessary, as usual.  
“D-Dave, Dave, you’ll never believe what happened, not in a million years!!”  
He hasn’t sounded this filled with excitement since you first planned the trip for him, and you can just imagine the grin on his face, so you’re smiling just a smidge at this wonderful boy’s contagious glee.  
“No, come at me. What is it?”  
“S-she understands, Dave! It’s all okay now!”  
And somehow in just those brief seconds, you understand, and your world is silent.  
“…Dave?”  
“Yeah, yeah, sorry, just surprised, haha,” you say, back into your sequential, robotic act that you still can’t quite place when it first stopped. “But damn, bro, that’s great.” (No it’s not, it isn’t at all, and all your skyscrapers are falling beneath you before you even got to take flight).  
“I know! Just… God, I don’t know what I would’ve done without her…” And the back of your mind is screaming that he would’ve been fine, because you’re there for him. You always are, you always have been, and begrudgingly you think, you know, you always will be. But that’s not what John wants, not what he needs, not what will be able to make him smile that beautiful smile.  
“I know, man,” you say, digging your nails deep into your palm as your struggle to keep your tone even and without emotion - a robot without a purpose. “I’m glad you guys got things worked out and shit.”  
You think maybe you ought to ask all the details, talk more with him, be sure he’s making the right choice, or even ask what the hell is going to happen with Disneyland now, but you’re feeling the air empty from your chest, and you can hardly bring yourself to properly speak.  
“Go have fun with her though, just don’t have too much fun without me,” you bitterly chuckle, not even sure how convincing it is at all, before you hang up without even saying your usual drawn-out goodbye.  
Within an instant, your phone is flying through the air and you’re on your knees, your wings growing black with your lost hope and the feathers of dreams falling in rapid succession. Your nails dig into your scalp and you can’t bring yourself to do anything but scream. Scream at how much of any idiot you were for doing this to yourself, scream at how your happiness was almost there, just in your reach, and scream at how you aren’t sure anymore if it ever really was. You feel the pressure of a thousands suns and a thousand planets as you collapse in on yourself, a broken heap of nothingness, empty and without the purpose you so longed for.  
Your lungs burn as if you never had air in the first place, and with the rough scratches you are cutting deep into your throat with each wracking yell, you wonder why you ever let yourself breathe in the first place. You’re a puzzle piece from the wrong puzzle, wrong and misshapen but determined to join this set you so admire, as you are blank and without companionship.   
And as the final ashes of your broken spirit fall into dust, you think how you were always meant to be a bystander - nothing less, and nothing more.


	16. Dana

TT: Are you crazy?  
TT: Because that is most certainly the only vibe I am currently receiving.  
TG: i dont see the big deal  
TG: i just wanna go to fuckin disneyland  
TG: is it so wrong to want to let out my inner child come on rose i am trying to replace puppet ass with fond memories its all very traumatizing  
TT: It’s wrong when conducted in what is more or less a suicide mission.  
TG: ill be fine  
TG: they invited me anyway and who the fuck turns down a disneyland invite like really  
TG: hint the answer was nobody  
TT: Invited you?  
TT: Strider, this was your trip.  
TG: well yeah but ok mollys tagging along now and the point was to cheer john and the kiddo up basically  
TG: so im not the main focus anymore idk  
TG: so what  
TG: either way its disneyland  
TG: itll be great  
TT: You ceased contact with all but John for the entirety of two weeks, and even John was only to be sure he would not be aware of what was going on.  
TT: Sharing the experience of what is honestly their second honeymoon will not ‘be great’ as you’ve so put it. It will destroy you.  
TT: As you know, I am normally quite the happy camper to simply act as the neutral party, but I will not stand by in the instance of such suicidal behavior.  
TG: funny word choice dont ya think  
TT: …Dave, I admit I’d expected as much earlier on, but.  
TG: shit no  
TG: dont worry ive died enough times already i aint goin anywhere  
TT: I take it’s been on your mind, however?  
TG: man all thats been on my mind is gettin a sweet bumpin of chests goin on with the big mouse himself  
TT: So it has been.  
TG: wow ok  
TG: look i avoided you for weeks to avoid goddamn something and  
TG: hey  
TG: guess what  
TG: this is it  
TG: news flash for the dumbest fucking ectosister this side of the ss bitchtits  
TG: but since you couldnt manage that im gonna ollie out elsewhere and daydream of donalds sweet feathery ass on my own  
TG: peace  
— turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 14:04 —  
— turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 14:17 —  
TG: shit  
TG: i cant just not go rose  
TT: I know.  
TT: You love him too much to miss that sort of experience with him, right?  
TG: yeah  
TG: sounds about right  
—-  
— tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 16:21 —  
TT: John.  
EB: oh hey rose! what’s up?  
TT: Upon the new information regarding your patched up relationship with Molly -   
TT: Congratulations, by the by  
TT: - I was curious as to what course of action you were intending with the crush you mentioned experiencing?  
EB: oh! uh.  
EB: nothing i guess?  
EB: i mean it was just a little thing while i was thinking i should get over molly.  
EB: it doesn’t really matter.  
TT: Of course, wise decision. I just though I ought to inquire on an update.  
TT: I’m sure Dana has been over hers for quite some time now.  
EB: huh? i never said any names, and where’d you get dana…  
EB: hey wait!  
EB: how did you!  
— tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 16:32—  
— ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 16:33 —  
EB: rose!


	17. Crazy

Your name is Dave Strider, you are thirty years old, and you’re beginning to wonder if you really are just as crazy as Rose seems to think you are.  
Hands holding open the door to your loft, three sets of feet are making their way in, one pair small, one pair clacking on hardwood with ebony heels, and another walking so light they may as well be floating just above the ground. After all have filed in, you come too, clicking the door shut behind you.  
“I can’t believe we’re at Daavey’s!” Casey coos, hitting the palms of her hands on to the sides of her face as she spins in awe, taking in the expanse of your living space. “It’s so cool!”  
You chuckle, going to pick up Molly and John’s bags for them, heading into your room. “You guys can stay in here - I got a king size, so Casey can squeeze on in too.”  
John seems displeased, huffing and shaking his head. “Dave, it’s your house! We can’t take your bed from you!”  
“I agree,” says Molly (and you wonder if she’s so eagerly agreeing to John and has been the whole time you’ve been interacting with him, to be some eager lapdog, or because she’s always been this way and you’re just too sick with envy to admit it). “We brought some blow-up mattresses, since John said your place wasn’t family sized!” You suddenly remember when picking out locations to take up residence, and some were described as just that - perfect for settling down. You laughed at the realtor, because you knew then and you know now that settling down just isn’t in your life’s plan.  
“Nah, it’s chill,” you say, putting your hands up. “I’m a singular unit,” as you know you’ll always be, “and I pass out on the couch a lot anyway, just shut your yappers and get the hel— heck, in the room, will ya?”  
Eventually they resign, and you’re left playing with Casey, who’s chattering chattering about getting to go to Disneyland soon, and how excited she is for this and that and everything in between. It was decided that they should just stay at your place due to your relatively close proximity to the theme park as is. Of course, in light of this situation, you pawned off all leftover alcohol and any other non-child-friendly possessions, at least until their stay is over.  
But with each passing moment of this, you’re quickly realizing why Rose was so intent on keeping you from this (or well, more than you’d already felt). Within the past few weeks, you’ve managed to slowly slide the gauze back over your wounds, the scabbing of expected skin having been roughly torn off, but you not willing for a moment to let the blood rain freely. And yet, it seems that each second is another knife driven into the wound, draining the drops that were there prior and piercing ones anew.  
Rose was right when she said this was their second honeymoon - the two are practically joined at the hip (and you hope that while they use your bed while alone, not hips plural) and at the lips. Casey always seems to relieve it a bit for you though, playing a “Blegh” noise with you at every kiss or every stupidly cheesy comment (you admit that John’s make you laugh and your face go a little red just because of how adorable he is), before you guys look away in ‘disgust’. Casey is bittersweet now though - because you aren’t sure when, but somewhere along the line in your daydreaming you started to think of her as more than your best friend’s daughter, but as yours. And maybe when the parents are divorced, it wouldn’t be weird, and maybe even helpful, but now you’re trespassing and all your laughter with her is hollow.  
So, you’re crazy; you’ve gone around the bend and you’re finally accepting it. You know this trip will be the end of you, will tear that open wound to shreds (because it is only halfway through their first evening here, and here you are, already believing this to be true), and yet you feel like you need be appreciative of it, because John is happy, Casey’s happy, and in some ways you’ve helped it. You’ve made them survive and you’ve made this evening where they all smile and all the ones to come possible. You wonder if you hadn’t done your best, if this wouldn’t have happened.  
You wonder if you let your walls down sooner, if you did ever, if things would be different, and you’d not be a bystander.  
Wishful thoughts and empty dreams are useless though, because side characters need no backstory, so you just chuckle, and pop in another DVD, Molly in John’s lap and Casey in hers. You go to sit on the other side of the couch, accepting (but oh so aching), before fingers tangle themselves around your jacket sleeve and pull you in, John and Casey forcing you close with them. You laugh and focus on the television.  
It isn’t until Casey’s dozing off and John’s putting her to bed, that Molly then confronts you. You are standing in the dimly lit kitchen, your mug of hot chocolate steaming in your hand (Casey demanded you all have some earlier, and this is the last of it) while you lean against the counter. She smiles softly at you, going to sit at the little barcounter of the kitchen, facing you. “Can I have a word with you?”  
You nod, continuing to sip at your mug expectantly. You haven’t the slightest idea what she would want to talk to you about, especially at this moment in time, but a part of you feels like it can’t be good.  
“Good, good,” she says, adjusting her pajama shirt as she fidgets some in the stool. “Well, I guess… I just wanted to thank you.”  
“Huh?” you manage out eloquently - not startled, a mere exclamation of inquiry.  
She giggles, nodding and picking at her nails as she stares down at the counter. “For everything, I guess. I realize you and I haven’t been on the best of terms in the past, and that you might not think too highly of me after all that’s happened,” and then dammit she’s smiling too honestly at you, with such worried glass eyes. “But you’ve helped my husband survive, and my daughter too - not just survive, they’ve actually been really happy, and I think I should give you your credit where it’s due.”  
And suddenly you are aching the strangest of aches - ones of thanks and gratitude for the recognition you hate to covet but feel you deserve, and ones of guilt, because here’s this woman who honestly loves her family, and yet you haven’t been able to see her beyond the eyes of a petty lovestruck teenager (which you guess is because well, you never got to be anything but that).  
You nod, taking a solemn breath. “It’s the least I could do, chillax.”  
She nods also, and there is a silence, one of awkward nature and yet also comfort, neither knowing what to say when you’ve reached a final, yet incomplete, understanding.  
“You’re still in love with him, aren’t you?”  
The sip of hot chocolate you had been letting warm your throat is suddenly convulsing inside as you choke, sunglasses knocking themselves unhinged and hanging from your nose in your startled moment. You hack repeatedly, worried for your breathing and your burning tongue but more for the exponential amount of shock that is reverberating throughout you.  
She laughs (a laugh that sounds like his, as they’ve become so fond of each other), before standing to lean over the counter and pat you with genuine concern. “It’s not some big secret, or at least, not to me,” and she’s smiling softly, a sad smile embroidered with pity, so much like the one Rose has worn at you for years, but with an added level of remorse. “But it’s okay - I know you just want him to be happy, and I want that too.”  
You’re nodding, again and again in a slow dance of acceptance. You can’t yet decipher whether you are being washed over with relief or with something else entirely.   
“So I also wanted to thank you for that, for doing what he needs,” and she’s breathing, adjusting in a conversation two people in love with the same person should never have. “It’s amazing to me.”  
Another nod, your lips and throat betraying you from saying any words because this wasn’t ever meant to be discussed, you had never even considered this.   
“And just, one more thing… I’d say I hope you find love with someone it can work with, or something,” and she laughs nervously, trying to be kind but realizing her place complicates things. “But I don’t think that’d help you. Either way, I hope you can be happy, okay?”  
The honest and genuine smile on her face just now is the one you think made John fall for her, and you’re smiling back just a bit, your eyes even tireder than a man your age’s should be, but hidden behind a thin black veil of acting. “Thanks.”  
Molly seems to understand that you don’t want to say much, as she nods and goes to step back. “That was all. I… hope that wasn’t too awkward?”  
“Nah, it’s cool as ice.”  
“Okay, good,” a few more steps back to unite with her loving husband. “Good night!”  
“G’night,” you sigh some, leaning against the counter once more, and wishing you had more than just a damned mug of sugar.


	18. Wrong

Your name is John Egbert, you are twenty-nine years old, and something is very, very wrong.  
Well, maybe not quite to such a severe extent, you guess - really, it’s very hard for you to balance what exact severity level your situation is, but it’s somewhere between the crossroads of ‘wow this is a little awkward’ and ‘i am the worst person to exist’.  
Your name is John Egbert, and you are falling in love with your best friend, while you’re married, with a daughter.  
The moment the prospect of it hit you, you felt you had to talk to Rose instantly - after all, she’s your go-to on matters of the heart, and she always has been, but the last time you discussed your crush with her, it didn’t quite… go so well. And even without that you feel horrible about the whole ordeal, so you decide that going against that would probably be for the better.  
— ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering gardenGnostic [GG] at 23:27 —  
EB: hey jade!  
GG; oh hey john!!! :D  
GG: whats up? heehee!  
EB: i was hoping you could talk something out with me! and maybe give me some advice, i don’t know.  
GG: oh yeah, of course! are you sure dont want to ask rose though? shes better at this sort of thing!! :(  
EB: no it’s fine! i wanna hear what you think about it.  
GG: ok then! shoot!!  
EB: well so you’ve heard about the molly thing recently, right?  
GG: you mean getting back together??  
EB: yeah.  
GG: then yes i have!  
EB: ok good! but uh, there’s sort of a problem…  
GG: uh-huh??  
EB: well, i still love her a lot, like, a lot a lot. but something about what happened and my time away from her made me feel like… i don’t know, i just don’t feel as happy about it anymore.  
GG: happy about what exactly?  
EB: i don’t know. being with her i guess?  
EB: i mean i was really really happy when we worked things out.  
EB: but i guess not as happy as i thought i’d be?  
GG: oh no!! :(  
EB: yeah. i guess i learned how to be on my own, and even though i still love her a ton, it’s not the same…  
GG: mhm. :((  
GG: oh also! does she still not believe you?  
EB: she says she does, but i know when she’s lying. i mean i guess it’s good she doesn’t really think i’m crazy, and i know it’s a lot to swallow.  
EB: but it still upsets me? so there’s that too.  
GG: oh john. :( i cant say i blame you for any of this one little bit!  
GG: but its really not simple either… oh gosh what do you want to do??  
EB: i don’t know, hehe… i guess it doesn’t help either that i think i might have started crushing on someone else while we were apart.  
GG: you did?! who!! :O  
EB: do you promise not to tell anyone?  
GG: of course!  
EB: not a single soul?  
GG: my lips are zipped tight! zip zip zip!  
EB: it’s dave.  
GG: …oh my god. :(  
EB: i know.  
GG: no, thats not it.  
GG: oh jeez uh, didnt he tell you he liked you a while back?  
EB: yeah… but even if there weren’t literally A MILLION REASONS to not do that, do you really think he still does?  
GG: do you??  
EB: …yeah.  
EB: i mean he treats me like he always has, but i guess he always has been?  
GG: yeah…  
GG: i just dont know john. im not really good at this so maybe you should ask rose too? :( but i think you should just think a lot, a lot a lot a lot a lot and then a lot more, and then do what makes you happy.  
EB: but what if i hurt someone? and not just anyone, they’re both people i care a lot about.  
GG: i feel like no matter what someone is gonna end up sad. but let the sad person be sad because youre happy without them, and not because youre sad but could be happy with them. the second one would hurt me more, i think.   
GG: did that make sense??  
EB: yeah! a lot, actually.  
EB: i still need to think more, but i think i know where to start now. thanks jade!  
GG: of course!!!  
GG: keep me posted please? :)  
And you have been thinking a lot. You’ve been trying to salvage everything you can with the one you love so much, and have for so long. You’ve brought yourself closer to her, in all forms of intimacy, trying to be near and do all the dumb things that used to make you laugh and your heart swell. But it just isn’t the same, and that terrifies you. You ache and you have spent nights sleepless over this, never having thought you’d be anywhere near falling out of love - that it just wasn’t something that could happen to you. Is that what’s going on here? The prospect of that almost hurts you even more, your teeth digging into your lower lip in guilt, in fear, and in the strangest form of heartbreak. She’s still wonderful, she’s still beautiful, she’s still your Molly, but she doesn’t seem to have the same place in your heart anymore, and it feels like there’s nothing more you can do.  
Why does that almost feel like a relief to you?  
Yet, here you are, on this trip and still trying to maybe make things work with her, staying in the home of a man who is far more tangled in this mess than he deserves. You’ve thought endlessly over what happened those few years ago, before Casey was even around - about what he said and what he probably didn’t say, about those fourteen years he said, about how you honestly still cannot even fathom it. About how it makes your heart race a little. And about how you feel like no matter which way you go, you’ll be breaking someone.   
Yeah, this definitely counts as very, very wrong.


	19. Ice Cream

Your name is Dave Strider, you are thirty years old, and you are wearing thin.  
You suppose it isn’t for the reasons you thought you would - it isn’t because John and Molly have been nuzzling noses and dancing with their fingers, it isn’t because as you walk the paved streets of the theme park they are holding hands and wearing matching mouse hats, and it isn’t because they laugh so harmoniously as they ride on Splash Mountain. You admit all those things and more hurt you, they stab at your heart like needles in a pin cushion, but that isn’t it.  
It’s the things that make you happy that really hurt.  
It’s holding Casey in your lap on the double-decker bus, it’s gasping with her as her eyes are wide in the Haunted Mansion, it’s sharing a themed meal with them all, it’s laughing uproariously with John after you pranked the girls. It’s John’s chuckling as you fight with an employee that you’ll be damned if you’re taking your shades off for this ride - it’s freaking the fuck out when they almost fall off on said ride. It’s the nights returning home and having John and Molly make dinner together while you play dolls with Casey. It’s the moments when you smile, and feel like you shouldn’t be smiling at all.  
And you’re trying to come to terms with the fact that this is just how it is, and just how it’s going to be. You’re wondering why it’s so hard, when this is the way it’s always been and you’ve always planned it. Maybe you just got too lustful with your aspirations, and your fingers were just inches from what you’d so longed for - so now it’s like you were starving, food in your mouth, and you were forced to spit it all out and stare at it. You feel empty and rubbed raw.  
But then there are also times that make it so you can forget. Like when John and you are the only ones not too chicken/short to go on the big coasters, and when you make sure he gets wet as fucking possible (“Fuck you, Dave!” “Calm down, I just wanted to cool you o— hey where did you get that Mickey Mouse water bottle.”) and when you bash shoulders with each other jokingly. He makes you smile so big, and sometimes during these moments you forget that you don’t need to be upset about anything. Because it’s just you and John, and there’s no bittersweet quality to it - not then at least.  
You feel like this is all playing out like some movie cliche - your life a script that if you wrote it out, you’re sure you’d make millions on. But you’re still trying to figure out why it has to be a tragedy, or at best, a love story where the guy never gets the girl. Sort of like Titanic where Rose actually stayed with Cal. When your mind starts thinking of this though, you feel a little conceited - thinking as if you’re some great prince that’s meant to sweep John off his feet, and it’s just that neither of you have realized it yet.  
Yet, if that isn’t the case, why are all the pieces falling into place, tragic as those pieces may be?  
Casey sitting on your lap while you decided to give the two lovebirds a bit of alone time, she’s kicking her feet and humming “It’s a small world” to herself. The both of you have decided that that ride and song are both pretty much the lamest things in existence, but dang it if the song isn’t the catchiest thing since some CD she likes.  
Soon John and Molly are heading back over, and your eyes light up as you hold Casey in one arm, standing, and waving on over to him. He’s grinning himself as he waves, hand held limply with Molly’s. “How was the ride, did you two make out?” you holler teasingly, clearly not really wanting the answer but wanting to see John huff at you incredulously. He does, just as you anticipated, and an almost genuinely laugh makes its way out.  
Molly’s just shaking her head but following quickly, but the more time you spend near her since that fateful conversation, you find your stomach twisting into knots at the fox-eyed pity she wears. You know she meant no harm, and in a way you’re sort of touched by her attempts at sympathy and kindness in your situation, but it all feels so… horrid. You’ve always been the type to outright detest when anyone felt sorry for you, and made it a point for no one to see you that way, and yet it just keeps happening and happening.  
But you don’t want to let yourself get caught up in that, so you’re shaking the worries from yourself and going back to joking with John and cuddling Casey, making your trek onto the way to the next ride. You try to appreciate the down moments for what they are - after all, life’s not a fairytale, and a family trip to Disneyland while being part of a family sure sounds like one to you.  
And the day continues, as the past couple before that have just the same. You can’t tell anymore if you’re excited for them to leave, or frightened for them to stay. You admit that sharing your living experience with your greatest pain isn’t the greatest experience by any means, but at once you did this for a reason and that reason rings true each time John laughs at some dumb joke you made.  
And you thought you were doing a great job of keeping this under wraps and keeping everything as it ought to be, but it doesn’t seem to be that way. When more time has passed, you’re alone with Casey once more, and the sunset is painting her cheeks with swatches of orange and gold. Both your tongues are waiting for the sweet taste of the ice cream cones both her parents have promised and are off getting, but otherwise you’re sitting in relative silence, enjoying the occasional moments that toddlers try to think and understand things.  
Eventually though she looks up at you, and you notice her once-brushed hair is messy yet again. “‘ey Davey?”  
You’re raising your eyebrows at her over your sunglasses. “Yeah, kiddo?”  
“Do you love Daddy like Mommy loves Daddy?”  
And if you had anything in your mouth you swear you’d be choking on it. This kid will be the death of you, you’re sure of it.  
You wonder in the brief seconds before you answer, if everyone’s noticed and just says nothing, or if due to all the facades and lies and complications people face over life, they just lose sight of people for their real selves. Because hell, this kid has gotten everything and she’s just fucking three years old, come on, what the fuck is up with that?  
You sigh, swallowing, because you promised yourself you’d never lie to her, but you also can’t just answer just because a fucking kid asked you to. So you answer with a question, “What makes ya think that?”  
She pauses, seeming to have just expected a yes or a no, contorting her little lips in weird shapes while she thinks. “I think it ‘cause… Davey jus’ cares a lot, ‘nd he looks sad whenever Daddy leaves wit’ Mommy, but ‘e gets happy with Daddy.” She nods, thinking that’s a good answer.  
You sigh again, nodding and adjusting her in your arms. “Yeah, that about covers it I guess. But telling your dad would make your mom and dad very sad, because it’s a sad thing when someone doesn’t love you too,” as you try this out it all sounds so messed up, and you have no idea if you’re even explaining it right. “So just a secret between us, ‘kay?” and you make a secret motion in front of your mouth, which she quickly mimics.  
“‘Kay!” And soon you’re licking at your ice cream, wondering if your life is that one movie all the teenage girls rush to see where the hearthrob loves his best friend with the jocky perfect boyfriend, and everyone knows until she finally realizes. Except, confession done or not, you aren’t sure if you’re gonna have the happy ending in the sunset.


	20. Numb

Your name is Dave Strider, you are thirty years old, and you wonder if this is what numbness is.  
It is not happiness for sure - you’ve not had the prolonged form that so many have been graced with, but you’ve had it briefly plenty of times and you know that what this is is not that. But at the same time you know what tragedy feels like, you know the aching and splitting of nerves and flesh that you face in your emptiest of times. This is not that either.  
It’s a lifeless feeling - the mechanical turning of gears as each limb pops into place, time and time again, repeating the day-in and day-out that comes with any job, no matter how glitzy or glamorous the setting. You wonder if one of the interviewers would laugh at you if you told her you felt this way, and felt so unimportant. You think a lot of people would snort at that.  
And yet all that happens these days is the clicking of metal on metal and the same conversations. The same phone calls and the same just-firm-enough handshakes. The same halfhearted drinking at night with the same aching back from sleeping on the couch. There aren’t tears or silent screams, but your face is plaster and your fingers are caking into statues.  
The first time the plaster cracks again is when you find that you are busy on a very important day, meetings holding you up from necessary travel.  
“Look, Case, I’m sorry,” you say into the phone receiver, seeming to treat her too seriously for her age. “I really wish I could make it for your birthday, but I can’t. I’ll be on the computer for ya though, ‘kay?”  
She still sounds upset at you after that, and you can’t help but think of how it seems almost like you’re a father separated from his family by work, eagerly returning home whenever possible. Except you’re no father, and this family and home aren’t yours - you are intruding and cast out, longing for something that isn’t even yours.  
All goes better than planned though - as you find your meetings planned and your calendar open. The brief gap in your mask allows a smile and a quick purchasing of plane tickets, bound for the home that will never be home.  
Casey is more than surprised when you’re standing at the door, adjusting your glasses as you look down at the party-hat clad girl. You arrived right on the morning of her birthday - having already discussed this with her parents - but grinning at the amazement on her face.  
“Davey, Davey, Davey!” she’s squealing and jumping with glee before she clings to your legs, nuzzling her face into your slacks.  
You chuckle some, reaching down to pet her head. “Hey kiddo.”  
She remains in this state for a few moments, seemingly pleased with this added joy to her birthday (you would like to make a joke about how you’re everyone’s favorite birthday gift, but really just seeing yourself as someone’s is good enough).  
“Aren’t you fo’gettin’ to say somethin’?” she huffs eventually, puffing out her cheeks and pouting at her. John starts chastising her with his own laugh from the doorway, Molly giggles behind her well-painted nails yet again.  
“What, I am?” you say in mock astonishment as you tap your chin. “I can’t think of anything else I oughta be saying - today’s been pretty lame after all.”  
And then she gasps and hmfs at you, going to face her head away, and you can’t help but snicker at that into your fist before reaching down to pick her up. “Just kiddin’ - happy birthday, Case.”  
And this numbness has a bit more contentment and peace layered atop its stone, but numb it so remains. You think that for your sanity it’s likely best for this - to long and occasionally ache but overall remain apathetic. You remind yourself of what your teenage self aspired entirely to be, only you seem to not make people laugh as much as you once liked.  
You’re soon walking in and seeing that the house is covered with decorations, only those fit perfectly for a four-year-old. Also known as: More decorations than anyone knows what to do with. You have to admire their effort even if you know that it’s going to simply result in your own removal of them.  
But the day passes in relative peace. Casey’s invited some of her neighborhood friends, all of which are excited to see you, and a couple of their older sisters ask for your autograph, which you quickly do with a quick SB&HJ doodle on the side. You’re happy to see the party going well though - after all, you never had too much of them as a kid. You never had enough friends and Bro never had enough time, besides, parties were for lame-os, so they just weren’t done. You had virtual ones once you met John and the others though.  
It’s really cute seeing everything go so well with Casey - so much so that you almost forget about the numbness you’re keeping up with John, your back turned to him and your hands in your pockets as you sing a flat version of Happy Birthday. You almost forget about the way that John and Molly work as a unit, the parents of the birthday girl, and you’re just the floating bystander that seems out of a place - a chaperon at best. You almost forget how you used to scoff at being a parent but how now you’re wanting every little bit of it, and to do it with him.   
And before you let yourself remember, the wall is back up and your shades are back tight over quivering eyes.  
Soon, too soon for any of the children’s liking, the birthday shenanigans are over though. Casey is swimming in her new goodies, prancing around in her new feather boa and disguise glasses with the biggest fucking smile on her face. She then runs off in her little Barbie flipflops to pop in the new DVD she got - some show Disney’s put out for little kids recently.  
It’s not too long until you’re doing your inevitable job of removing all the decorations, tossing the streamers and balloons down at Casey and John from the staircase. John snorts and tries to toss it back at you, but you’re quickly evading it and back to your job.  
You notice John seems to be nervous though - laughing a bit too much and too little pranking. He’s jittery as he puts things away, and though you were ignoring him mostly for your facade’s sake, you’re slowly peeking over it if only to see him briefly, and his gestures are worrying you further and further. You wonder momentarily if he’s having issues with Molly again, but you aren’t about to go down that road again, not so easily.  
So you go back to your job, bringing up the wall once more, assuming he’ll address it with you if there’s anything wrong - he trusts you, after all.  
—-  
It’s evening and Molly is watching another movie with Casey when John goes to help you unpack in the guest room. He’s never helped you before, so you figure that’s code for “Bro I got 99 problems and a bitch is all of them” or something like that, so you shrug and let him on in.  
Strangely, it actually seems to go as actual unpacking for quite some time, silent and repetitive as he nicely folds the clothes and you just toss your toiletries about carelessly. After some time the brushing of fabric and skin ceases though, and he’s just sitting there, eyes fixated on the suitcase as he nibbles at his lip.  
You sigh, going to move to lean against the wall with your arms crossed behind your head, prepared for a drawn-out conversation. “Spill.”  
“H-huh?” he sputters and blinks, as if you knocked him from the middle of a long-running train of thought.  
“Talk to me about what you really wanted to talk about,” you shrug. “Dr. Strider is ready to hear all your woes and then systemically ask you how the fuck you feel about them.”  
“Oh! Uh, no it’s not like that, I guess, hehe…” he says, his usual nervous laugh bubbling out as the side of his mouth stretches dorkishly. Your lip quirks a little at the adorable gesture (pressing at the plaster that you refuse to let crack off).  
“Close enough then. Just whatever, spill your guts, bro,” you persist. Then you’re sitting up. “I’ll tickle it out of you if I have to.”  
His eyes go wide in a joking fear as he waves his hands in front of him. “No no no no! That’s fine, I’ll tell ya, just gimme a sec, jeez.”  
You nod, pleased with that answer as you lean back again, as you were.  
“I’ve been thinking and uh, hehe…” he says, eyes never leaving their focus on his knees. “I don’t know. Remember when you said you had that crush on me way back when?”  
And the world is stopping all over again, frozen in that moment as your mind can’t process anything else. Granted, he’s said nothing on the subject matter yet - and yet, the mere mention from his lips causes an earthquake in your mind and a lightning strike through your veins; silence before the eventual thundercrack.  
“Yeah, I guess? I mean it was kind of me.” It’s an affirmation, but not a commitment.  
He doesn’t seem to sure about taking that route for explaining whatever he’s going for. “Well I guess… when Molly and I were having issues before, I started to… feel some things I felt back in high school? Did I ever tell you about that?”  
You nod.  
“Fuck, I don’t remember that but, anyway. And I guess even since Molly and I have gotten back together,” your heart is pounding out of your chest and you’re breaking a sweat, this can’t be real, this can’t be real, “it hasn’t gone away?”   
Your eyes are widening behind your sunglasses as they well with tears, the plaster falling from your skin and the walls crumbling down in a symphony of release. It’s all you’ve ever waited for, just on the tip of his tongue…  
“So I guess what I’m trying to say is… I really like you, Dave, and I—”   
But you hear nothing else aside from crashing stone and the flapping of wings as you propel yourself forward, hands gripping onto his face as your lips collide and tear after salty tear rains down your face. You’re a mess and this explosion is more than you bargained for, but you can’t restrain yourself as you finally feel without boundaries.   
You feel like a life’s worth of struggle and hopelessness has just been lifted from you. And it’s so fucking great.


	21. Moonlight

Your name is Dave Strider, you are thirty years old, and you’ve never been so happy.  
You realize faintly that you may be getting a bit ahead of yourself, but you can’t help yourself as you press your lips tightly to his and hold his face beneath your fingertips, choking back the sobs of nearly two decades’ worth of sorrow. Soon he’s kissing you back, his fingers shaking shyly on your shoulders. There is more passion in that one kiss than you’ve ever experienced otherwise, more explosions and more fire than any faint touching of lips or rubbing of the skin of strangers. It is the relief after a lifetime of pent-up frustration and loneliness; it’s the first storm after an immense drought. There you remain for some time before the sensation must come to an end, him pulling back and those very fingers that held your shoulders so, just gently pushing you away.  
“Sh-shit… Shit…” you’re muttering while removing your sunglasses and then wiping at your pitifully dampened face with your sleeve, smiling through your sobs. You know this is the most emotion you’ve shown to anyone (when sober), and you almost take a moment to think about how weak you’ve become. But with the bliss that’s surrounding you, there’s more on your mind than feeble insecurities.  
When you look up from your arm though, his own expression is nothing short of distraught; his own eyes red with irritation and mirroring yours, his face quickly moving to burrow into his hands.  
Disillusionment coating you, you reach out towards him. You murmur at him as you catch your breath, “John, what’s wrong…?” You lost control, you should’ve shown more restraint – but you’ve shown nothing but restraint for years and in that moment you felt there was simply nothing else you could do.  
“I just… Fuck Dave, I’m so, so sorry, but I just…” and he wipes at his nose and eyes, a forced laugh as he tries to regain his composure along with you. “I’m married, Dave, and I… I still love Molly, at least, I’m pretty sure, and I just… I don’t know, I wanted to be honest with you because, the way I’ve been, we’ve been going. It’s not working; it’s just not working…”  
And suddenly you’re stranded again, only without a single shred of protection or anything to even try to hold onto. The worst part is the look in his eyes – it tells you how he loves you too, how not any of this is a lie. It’s raw and pained and stricken with guilt, but this is simply the way things are, the way they’re going to be, and the way they have always fucking been.  
Though he’s not said so plainly, you assume he wants a break (that’s not the right term; it makes it sound like you were ever more than just a pair of pining friends, star-crossed as you may be). A break from you to get over you, and get on with his life (get over you – get over you when you never even had the chance to wrap your mind around him loving you, liking you, whatever, in the first place). You aren’t even sure if he’s come to such a decision just yet, but he will and it’s for the best. So you stand, picking up the shambles of your dignity and your numbness, unsure if they will ever be in place again as they were. “I probably ought to get going. I’ll be back tomorrow for my shit.” You grab your jacket and your keys, simultaneously going to replace your sunglasses, before going to exit the room. You’re then hurrying down the stairs and out the door, breath caught deep in your throat. You vaguely hear Casey calling after you in confusion, but you’re leaving the vicinity as quickly as possible.  
You’re wondering how the hell it even came to this – how it came to be that your grave is deeper than you ever even anticipated. You’re not flat on the pavement as was your worst case scenario; you are plunged deep in the rocky debris that surrounds you. When did this family that wasn’t even yours become everything? Were they always? When did gravity become so cruel, and when did what once held you so high bring you crashing down faster than ever? Are your flapping wings what ultimately pulled you even deeper into this hole you’ve dug yourself?  
You can hardly see as you start driving through a familiar neighborhood that’s never really been yours, tired old 80’s tunes blaring thoughtlessly on your sound system. You hear the buzzing of your phone in your coat pocket, but you can’t seem to bring yourself to care enough to check on it.  
Eventually, you’re flicking off the engine after pulling into the parking lot of some lake, summer moon reflected across the water. Rolling down the window, you allow your body to relax in the crisp night air and rest your swollen eyes.  
Despite your skills with time, you think it’s finally running out.  
You wake up to the too-early chirping of birds and the warning clouds of rain. Groggily running your fingers over the stubble-clad skin of your face, you grumble and roll up the window you carelessly left open the night before. You adjust the glasses on your face before pulling out your phone, tiredly flipping through all your missed alerts.  
You’re greeted by a plethora of missed calls from John, as well as some texts from both him and Rose.  
—ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 21:02—  
EB: no dave, shit, where’d you go?  
EB: i’m sorry and that wasn’t at all what i meant!  
EB: …ok, i don’t even know what i meant. just, i know it’s not this.  
EB: please please answer your phone. where are you?  
EB: god dave you’re scaring the shit out of me. are you ok??  
—ectoBiologist [EB] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 01:59—

—tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 21:16—  
TT: Dave.  
TT: I understand your feelings, at least from what John has thus far relayed to me, but I am going to have to ask that you at least inform one of us of your whereabouts.  
TT: I know how much this must have affected you – so I am here. Just don’t turn your back just yet.  
TT: I pray you are alright.  
TG: yo  
TT: Oh thank heavens, there you are.  
TG: yeah i crashed in my ride by some sweetass lake  
TT: Do you mean sleep as opposed to a vehicle accident?  
TG: yeah shit was dope  
TT: I have no doubt that it was.  
TG: yeah go ahead and tell john im ok if thats why youre here  
TT: That’s already been taken care of.  
TT: He spent half the night looking for you, you had him worried sick.  
TG: well shit  
TT: I’d say. Storming out so suddenly lacks situational closure.  
TG: did he just give you a playbyplay on this jesus Christ  
TT: Somewhat.  
TG: oh man now here comes the underdog player the lil man hass the wrong  
TG: tonight hes the star its him  
TG: except OH SHIT that was a foul play no points for him and he basically fucks over everyone involved ouch  
TG: lets see that again  
TT: Your lack of sports knowledge while at once tragically unraveling your innermost thoughts into a comic spawned in your adolescence continues to amaze me to this day.  
TG: thanks i try  
TT: I’m sure. But anyway, John is afraid you don’t want to be friends anymore.  
TG: ok first of all  
TG: he was totally headed that way with what he was saying  
TT: Granted.  
TG: and second of all we cant be  
TT: Why not? I agree on some levels, but I am interested in your reasoning also.  
TG: mainly because im about to be the cause of a broken family  
TG: or maybe because im ruining a fucking marriage which i know if i were molly then itd fucking destroy me for that to happen  
TG: or maybe because I might make a promising kid have to go through a divorce at the goddamn age of 4  
TG: and also hey maybe for both of our sanities itd be better because clearly at least one of us had to get over this  
TG: aka one of us has to and will  
TG: hint  
TG: its not me


	22. Chapter 22

Your name is Dave Strider, you are thirty years old, and the clock is ticking.  
It ticks away every second, clicking on your wall and echoing in your ears. It feels as if time is running slower - every day a year. And you know you were only designed for so long, you are meant for an expiration date, but with each second slowly, slowly ticking, it feels like you’re too far gone.  
You feel much too old for your age. You wonder vaguely if it’s because of the layers upon layers of yourself that ultimately became one when you returned from that horrible game. You wonder if it’s because you’ve missed your chance for whatever it was that was supposed to make adult life bearable, so you’ve just skipped right past middle-age. You wonder if this is the feeling of having not spoken to your best friend, the love of your life, your mentally-adopted daughter - in months. You can’t really tell these days - you’re just weak and tired, and that’s exactly what a Strider should never be.  
You almost don’t even notice that with more seconds ticked by, you’re thirty-one years old.  
That is, until your phone is vibrating on your desk, and you stare at the caller ID bleary-eyed. You deleted the number in a fit of frustration, too many hits and too much temptation, but you’d recognize it any day - it’s John.  
You wonder for a moment why he’s calling, what with how long you’ve not spoken. John tried to keep it up, but you weren’t hearing a word of it, and did your best to cut everything off. Eventually, you guess he just stopped trying. Rose keeps you updated on how he’s doing though, which makes the absence of the man you love more than anything a bit more bearable (you aren’t sure if bearable is even what you can classify it as at this point).  
You debate between whether you should even answer it for some time, before the temptation becomes too great and you pick up the phone. “Yo,” you say, your throat rough from the past few nights of drinking, although you’re surprisingly sober this evening.  
“Oh! Hey Dave! I uh… I didn’t think you’d answer.”  
You want to scream that of course you answered, that you miss him like hell and that every moment you’re thinking of new things to say to him but you had to delete his number just so you couldn’t give up and text him. Sure you have the number memorized, but dialing it gives you enough time to stop yourself halfway through.   
“Yeah,” is all you say though, the word like a croak. “What’s up though?” You’re trying to keep it casual even though your skin is falling off of you.  
“I wanted to wish you a happy birthday right at midnight, hehe!” he chuckles, seemingly very nervous but also… excited. You guess that makes sense, after all he was… is your best friend. That’s normal.  
Still, you smile, the dead animal of a heart inside your chest beating along with it. “Thanks, man,” you respond warmly, adjusting your position in your chair. “You been doin’ a’ight?” It feels so forced and so out-of-place, especially when you’ve tried so hard to limit yourself, and yet here you are, acting like nothing more than old friends separated by new lives. You think that phrase would apply more if you were friends even, and if you had anything near a new life.  
“Y-yeah! I’m good, I’m good, haha…” he says, a tone to his voice as if there’s more he’s searching for to say, not wanting it to simply fall to simple smalltalk.  
But that’s all there is, and it both pains and comforts you that you’ve made it to that point, because that was exactly what you were going for. A part of you thinks it’s not because of the time, or anything like that, but rather because there’s something blocking him, but another part of you thinks that’s better left untouched.  
So you just let yourself smile once more, before you take in a breath and tell him, “Thanks for the happy birthday though, bro. Have a good night.”  
“Dave, I, wait—” But you’re clicking the end call button too soon, hearing the tell-tale beeping in your ear.  
— tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 00:06 —  
TT: Happy birthday, Mr. Strider.  
TG: thanks  
TT: So you answered John?  
TG: yeah  
TT: I’m proud. Does that mean you think you’re making progress?  
TG: fuck no  
TT: In pieces again?  
TG: yhea  
TT: I don’t think this plan you had is going as well as you’d hoped.  
TG: well you said johns klo  
TG: ok  
TT: Yeah.  
TT: About that.  
TG: what  
TT: …I’m sworn to secrecy but.  
TT: I’ve had enough of this.  
tentacleTherapist [TT] pasted:

"EB: it’s not working rose.  
TT: What isn’t?  
EB: i don’t know. just.  
EB: all of this.  
TT: Do you mean the Molly ordeal?  
EB: yeah… i guess that’s what you’d call it?  
EB: or is it the dave ordeal?  
EB: i don’t know.  
TT: It’s fairly clear that you lack knowledge on the subject matter.  
TT: And although I hate to sound too stereotypical: how do you feel on it?  
EB: i feel… like everything’s messed up.  
EB: like i took a wrong turn, or something?  
EB: i don’t know when though.  
TT: We’re getting somewhere.  
EB: and like  
EB: things haven’t been good with molly for too long. it’s been what, over a year?  
EB: things just… aren’t the same.  
TT: And what about Dave?  
EB: i.  
EB: i don’t know.  
EB: i think i love him too. but i still care a lot about molly.  
TT: But are you in love with her?  
EB: i think so. it’s just.  
TT: Not the same, you’ve said.  
EB: yeah.  
TT: May I offer my advice on the subject?  
EB: well that’s why i’m here hehe.  
TT: Have you ever heard the quote, ”If you love two people at the same time, choose the second one, because if you really loved the first one you wouldn’t have fallen for the second”?  
EB: no i haven’t.  
EB: well, hadn’t.  
EB: but i guess it’s a good point…  
TT: No decisions. Just think on it.  
EB: yeah."

TG: so whats your point  
TT: My point is that that conversation was yesterday.  
TG: shit  
TT: You realize the complications and obstacles better than anyone, and I am sure you will make the right choice.  
TT: But in the long run, my advice would be, if I may be so frank:  
TT: Go get ‘im, tiger.


	23. Wait

Your name is Dave Strider, you are thirty-one years old, and your head is spinning.  
You suppose you’re able to breathe now, but that doesn’t really matter with the way the world has contorted before you. The crackers on the shelf and the scattered papers on the floor and the alcohol stains in your once-new carpet are all blurry and you can’t make sense of it all. Concepts that once defined how you lived are being challenged, concepts you’ve never thought could be broken and at once always prayed they would. And you can’t even tell if you’re happy or fucking terrified. You guess it’s a mix of both - you’ve always been the king of mixed feelings.  
But even with the thought in mind of “going and getting him, tiger” (that thought that crumbles your mindset and shatters the clockwork you’ve worked so hard to line up), you have no idea where to even begin. It’s more than just a kiss and a charming smirk (could you even pull those off this late in the game?), it’s a tragic waltz surrounded by dominoes, and you have to lead your feet to not knock down a single one. Yet you know no matter what, at least one or two have to fall. But which one knocks down hundreds behind it?  
You think that maybe texting John is a thing you should do.  
— turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB] —  
TG: hey  
EB: dave!  
EB: hey!  
TG: yeah hows it goin  
You aren’t even sure what to do here. It’s been months since you IM’d him, texted him, anything - and you’ve only just now unblocked him. You were afraid maybe he’d’ve blocked you too, just because that’s something you would’ve done if someone blocked you out of frustration, but then you remember this is John and he’d never do that.  
EB: it’s good! i’m good!  
EB: how’ve you been?  
TG: im alright bout the same as when you called  
EB: good! hehe.  
TG: you been ok  
TG: i havent drowned from your tears of missing me yet so i assume you have been  
And even though you know for a fact he’s missed you, you still grit your teeth and worry a little as you type that, somehow worrying as you picture him laughing away with his family, and you’ve been laughing alone with deleted texts and photos hung on the wall.  
EB: hehe! ive been ok.  
EB: i’ve missed you a lot though, actually.  
EB: what changed your mind on texting me…?  
And you didn’t want to confront it this soon - you wanted to laugh and to joke like you used to. But you guess you’ve surrounded yourself with these dominoes, and it’s time to take a step.  
TG: this isnt working  
EB: what?  
EB: what isn’t?  
TG: this whole avoiding the shit out of you thing  
EB: yeah, it’s not working for me either…  
TG: i mean i could handle it   
TG: maybe  
TG: if it were actually doing what it was fucking supposed to  
EB: and what was that?  
TG: make you get over me  
EB: oh.  
TG: rose told me  
EB: what! that’s not like her!  
TG: yeah i know it was weird  
TG: but we can talk about how rose is a shitty therapist and letting her age get to her later  
EB: ok…  
TG: but what are we gonna do about this  
TG: i did what i thought worked but oh look another foul  
EB: what?  
TG: doesnt matter  
EB: uh, ok.  
TG: i repeat private egbert  
TG: what are we gonna do about this  
And you have no idea which direction this is stepping you - all your analytic decisions have fallen behind you, ashes in the wind. You can tell if your stomach is filled with fear or excitement, but either way it’s making you sick.  
EB: i… don’t know…  
TG: how long do you think its gonna last  
EB: what?  
TG: dont make me say it dude come on  
EB: do you mean me liking you?  
He hesitated before typing that (or sending it), and you can see why, because you’ve been sitting on this for decades and there’s a frog in your throat. You wonder what wrapping his mind around it must be like for him.  
TG: yeah  
TG: pretty much that  
EB: uh, i don’t know i guess.  
TG: cause ive been at this for a long fucking time now so my shits not going away  
TG: we know that everyone knows that even fucking dr phil knows it  
TG: not even a hey dave maybe you should move on and stop letting this anguish overtake you  
TG: nope just a hey yeah sure sucks doesnt it youre stuck with him aint love tragic  
TG: but i didnt sit here like this for years to tear you from something you spent your whole life building up and dreaming of  
TG: so i want to know whats gonna make you happy and stop tearing you to pieces i dont want this to do that to you god dammit

He doesn’t respond for a long time after that, and you’re frozen, not sure what else to do or if you should send something else, or see if there’s some way to hack the program and delete all your messages. You’ve said too much, you’re sure of it, but one by one your gates are breaking loose.  
EB: i don’t want to make any decisions right now and. dave i’m really really sorry about doing this to you this long i can’t… believe how fucked up this is.  
EB: and i just want to give you a straight answer on what to do but, i really… don’t know.  
TG: yeah its kind of a mess aint it  
EB: yeah.  
EB: but i. i don’t know if it’s gonna go away, i really don’t.   
EB: can you wait with me just a little longer…?  
EB: god i’m the worst i’m so sorry.  
TG: nah its kay  
TG: ive waited this long havent i  
EB: yeah…  
Then you finally make it to the laughter and the jokes, and you’re able to smile, but your head won’t stop spinning, it won’t stop spinning.


	24. Maybe

Your name is Dave Strider, you are thirty-one years old, and your head is swimming.  
You’ve always thought that term was stupid. Because, frankly, it is. Half the terms you use and half the terms you could never bring yourself to use are all idiotic, filled to the brim with pointless open-ended metaphors that don’t make any fucking sense. You hide yourself behind a facade of quick-witted words, both typed and spoken, humor lacing itself throughout your presented being. The only ones who seemed to have ever been able to decode it have been Rose, John, and Bro. Rose because she damn well tries, Bro because he’s seen you at your worst (and it makes you shake with humiliation to even think of those nights at your weakest points when you’ve called him, and he’s since stopped answering in the middle of the night as an attempt to rescue your self-esteem), and John because well… when he tries, he just seems to get it. Most of the time he doesn’t seem to though, at least not the things that you keep locked away most intently, and maybe that’s for the better.  
Scratch that, it is most definitely for the better. You’ve been a wreck lately - you’ve been more than a wreck, you’ve been a flaming disaster with stormclouds brewing over you as you desperately huff your air in and out of your chest, eyes looking for sunlight somewhere in the distance. Waiting is making your breathing harder, is making your words fall quicker and with much less sense to them. You feel the joy of a thousand angelic choruses at your own feelings returned, while at once as if your final match has been bathed in those very stormclouds’ rain at that still not being enough. You say ridiculous things, you think things that are a tremendous amount more ridiculous than those even; the sorts of things that break your heart and the sorts of things that make your face burn. You’re not used to this by any means.  
But all these sorts of worries seem like playtime, really; like you’re some high school dope that’s gone all twitterpated in Spring’s arrival. If it were just lovestruck eyes and the shy passing of notes, it’d be one thing, but there are lives on the line, both literally and figuratively. You have to zip your lips tight, just barely remembering where you put the key for the iron lock on them. You want to finally break loose all that’s built within you for years, but not yet, not yet.  
You are eager for this ‘yet’, and yet (ha) you hope it never comes. You think you’re justified in either hope. But, whether this is a relief or otherwise, you can’t remain in one place forever. It’s time for another step to be made.  
— tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 17:09 —  
TT: Are you sure the both of you want to do this?  
TT: My advice still stands, of course, but it is a heavy decision.  
TG: what  
TT: Oh. Was it not something the both of you concluded?  
TG: no what the fuck are you even going on about  
TT: Oh dear. Perhaps I’ve said too much.  
TT: John will tell you when the time is right.  
— tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 17:13 —  
TG: well thanks for putting me in suspense i guess  
There’s never a right time for something like this.  
EB: hey dave, i was wondering if you could help me with something!  
TG: yeah sure what is it  
EB: i’m moving out again, hehe. probably for good this time.  
EB: and i could use some help with it, if that’s ok.  
TG: when  
And you can’t help but think maybe John’s a little fucking nuts.  
Not as nuts as you are, you reckon, as you scan your credit card and throw a couple hundred dollars away, stepping on the plane thoughtlessly to go help your bro (the man you love) out. But at the same time you aren’t sure you sit well with the way things are heading. It’s fast and it’s none-too-precise, and you can’t help but be afraid he’s throwing everything away. On account of you. Is it even on account of you? He didn’t seem to want to talk about it when you pestered and pestered him, until eventually you just gave in (as you always ultimately do, no matter how much you hate admitting it), figuring he’ll tell you when you see him.  
It’ll be the first time you’ve seen him since… since he told you he felt the same, since your lips met and your dreams crashed like waves on frozen sand. Since right before you tried with all your might to break the ties between the two of you, but in the end it seems you’re only crashing back together again, this time at full force. You just hope that nobody breaks in the process (and that if someone does, that it be you and not John or anyone else, you can take the fall, nobody else has to).  
But still you are filing through the motions you did all that time ago (your perception of time is getting hazier with each day, and the confusion is beginning to mess with you - it’s weird because once upon a time, nothing made sense but time, and now here you are without even that, maybe that’s what aging is), arriving, and moving each bit of furniture into a new apartment. This one is smaller than his last place, and a lot of his things are in storage. You hope he’s just here until he’s back on his feet again, and maybe he can get a house like that cozy one you were almost ready to call home with him (even if he never invited you to).   
Time is still muddled while his hands shake, sifting through boxes for which need be indoors and which need be in storage for now. He looks tired, so tired, and you wish your own exhaustion could be halted so you could be at your full potential to assist him, to help him rise back to his feet. But you’re tired too, and you hate that his eyes are beginning to look like yours - wrinkled too young with too many stress lines and not enough smile lines (you can see the small creases of smile lines beginning though, and it makes you smile too that he was happy enough that long, but it makes you want to scream that he’s losing that, because he deserves better than even happiness and this world is so fucking wrong sometimes).   
You file away the items he’s chosen for his home (you notice they’re far less personal than last time, as if he’s not sure what he wants to be reminded of anymore), hoping if you’re messy then he’ll scold you and you’ll do it anyway, and maybe you can playfight for a little bit (too old to do that anymore but too childish to give a damn), but he just shakes his head with a little breathy, hollow laugh and he puts them away himself. He avoids your touch and you can tell a million thoughts are running through his mind, a good thousand too many for him to handle right now. You want to hold him and smooth out his hair as you press your chapped lips to his forehead, tell him it’s alright and maybe even unironically hum him a lullaby, but that would be too much for him too, so you just give his back a hearty pat every so often, hoping maybe he’ll let down his walls for you soon enough. You of all people know how shitty it is when other people force them down first.  
He’s holding up better than you expected you guess - you still don’t really understand any of it though. John left Molly (permanent or not, you don’t know), he’s living here, and he invited you to stay with him for some time, and that’s all you know. A part of your head told relentlessly that this was your fault, that he called you up here for some cheesy romance novel ending except without the all-around eventual happiness and instead with a stressed-out daughter and a lonely mother. And maybe that’s still it. But if it is, he sure isn’t showing it, as he doesn’t give you the cold shoulder per se, but definitely is anything but overtly affectionate towards you. He seems like he’s wearing a mask now though, like he has that numbness that you had and still sort of have, and despite your acceptance of your own, he doesn’t deserve that. He deserves genuineness and excitement, and you just wish you knew how to give him that.  
It isn’t until the second morning you’re there that he finally lets himself cry, hand clenching tightly around the frying pan while he tries to make the both of you bacon (you wonder if he’s remembering some breakfast he normally makes Casey and Molly - probably something corny like a bacon and eggs smiley face, and your heart aches and swells from his sadness and from how adorable a gesture that is, how it’s just like him). It’s silent and it is not pining for attention - it is the saddest of crying because he’s just barely shaking while he digs the metal pan into his palms, and you know without looking that tear after salty tear is sliding down his face.  
If it were Bro, or if it were someone with you, you think it’d be best to turn a blind eye - but this is John, and though he deserves as much preservation of dignity as anyone, that’s not what he needs right now as you stand from the kitchen table (still not feeling quite homey in the tiny space), and move next to him, rubbing his back gently and slowly.  
It’s then that he finally looks at you, and sure enough, those tears are each on his face, stains down his cheeks as he tries to maybe pop a tiny smile. You just want to grab the side of hid face and slowly bring his lips to yours (probably tasting his tears simultaneously) and just hold him until his frame stops shaking and he finally feels at peace. But now’s not the time for that, no matter how he feels for you, no matter how either of you feel. Because he is scared and he is fragile and maybe, maybe you’re too scared for that too.  
You think for a second that maybe he’s thinking the same thing as you, that maybe he’s wondering if your lips meeting would be good too (and you have to remind yourself that maybe that’s not the biggest fantasy in the world, and maybe that makes it hurt a little more). But he just looks forward again, leaning against you and letting you wrap your arms around him.   
You slip up and press your lips to the top of his head, but with nothing in the room but the crackling of bacon and slow breathing, you don’t think either of you can bring yourselves to care.


	25. Close Look

— tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 09:12 —

TT: Are you awake yet?

EB: yeah! i just finished making dave breakfast, hehe.

TT: I’m glad to hear I didn’t wake you, as well as that the two of you sound as if you are doing well.

EB: yep!

EB: did you need something though?

TT: I was just going to inquire as to how things are faring, and by that you know very well I mean on a deeper, more personal level.

EB: oh yeah.

EB: good i guess??

EB: i mean it’s kind of hard to say when i’m not really even sure what i was hoping for in the first place.

TT: I know you don’t just dive into such serious waters so blindly.

EB: yeah i know! it wasn’t… blindly, i guess.

TT: Then what was it, pray tell? I am aware of your leaving Molly, moving out, and taking residence with Dave, all seeming to be more or less related to your feelings for the other.

TT: Are you wanting to enter a relationship with him or not?

EB: well! yes and no!

TT: You’re killing me, “Smalls”.

EB: i just… i think that considering everything, going with dave like that would be bad. first thing. i don’t wanna jump right to that.

TT: Yes, wise choice.

EB: so i didn’t leave molly to be with dave. in fact i really miss molly a lot. i still love her after all and i… i actually am not sure if i made the right choice with that?

EB: but i’ve been having my doubts on being with molly a while. more than a while. and that’s… that’s not the kind of husband i want to be, it’s not the kind of father i want to be.

EB: does that make sense??

TT: Yes, it does.

TT: So what do you want then?

TT: John, are you there?

EB: yeah, sorry! i was fighting with dave over picking up casey. he decided he wanted to.

EB: but anyway.

EB: i guess i want to know what i want.

EB: i used to be so sure, but i don’t know anymore.

TT: Take your time, it will come to you. Just don’t close any doors for yourself.

EB: i won’t. thanks, rose. :B

TT: You’re more than welcome.

TT: Best of luck to you. I’m very proud of your strength in all of this. 

TT: Remember I’m just a message away if you need me.

— tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 09:41 —


	26. Dolls

Your name is Dave Strider, your are thirty-one years old, and man, this kid talks a lot.

Not that you’re complaining - you’re pretty damn pleased that she’s babbling away happily and hitting at your arm with her tiny hands instead of well… doing what she ought to be doing, which is being horribly angry at you for what’s going on. Or crying, or shit, you don’t know - something that reflects the turmoil her family is going through lately (because of you). But here she is, just telling you all about her little friends down the street and how she just got done pretending to be a crocodile in their pretend games. You suppose she hasn’t really processed what’s going on quite yet, or if she really will until she’s much older. You’re not sure you want to think about how that opinion may shift as she ages.

It was odd really - you still don’t know what the hell is going on with this whole situation. You don’t want to pester John about it because it’s obvious he’s still taking a truckload of devastation from it, but you still don’t even know how much of this really involves you. When you picked the kid up her mother, Molly, looked at you with sad, tired eyes and pushed Casey forward (who was more than happy to barrel into your legs and glom onto them). “Any reason you’re here and not John?” she asked - not bitter, just curious and a little sad. 

“He’s got a lot more to be doing than me,” you had shrugged - though it was your choice to come instead, you weren’t about to let John immediately face such a major thing (the guilt seemed to be killing him slowly). You figured it’d probably be best for Casey to hold off a bit too, what with how she never shut up about her mommy, but there wasn’t much anyone could do about that, because she’s also part of what’s gonna keep him going. You wanted to lessen that hit as much as possible.

But regardless here you are, unloading a still babbling four-year-old out of her carseat and into one of your arms, the other carrying her Hot Wheels-themed suitcase. You still don’t get why a traveling bag needs to be racecar themed, those are just toys, but you find it kind of really fucking funny.

Walking into the house, with a decree of “Honey, I’m home” (just how ironic are you still being? When does it just become plastic and hopeful?) before setting down Case, letting her run full-speed to her “Daddy” as she keeps squealing that name over and over. You decide at that point to simply take it upon yourself to put the bag away into her new room.

While unpacking things for Casey (you know that the damn girl will never do any of it herself except toss it everywhere, a lot like you were as a kid, so you figure you should just go ahead and do it and take the task off of John’s shoulders) you take your phone out of your pocket and notice it’s flashing at you, the usual pesterchum client blinking rapidly.

— tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 09:47 —

TT: I realize you’re likely busy, so simply respond whenever it is that you find the time to do so.

TG: hey sup

TT: There you are. Do you have your daughter all properly unloaded?

TG: yeah but how do you

TG: wait what the fuck she aint my kid

TT: Legally and biologically speaking, I’m sure she would have no complaints at me addressing her that way.

TT: At least that’s what she had to say when I stopped by for the holidays this past Christmas season.

TG: anyway how did you

TG: wait what the fuck she said that

TT: I am beginning to notice a bit of a pattern here, wouldn’t you say?

TG: pattern schmattern i think all of us here know how very much i care about that

TG: for those of you keeping track at home thats zip zero nada

TT: Thank you for enlightening me.

TG: youre welcome dont want you falling behind on me

TT: I would have been simply devestated.

TG: i know i hear that a lot i go too fast im a lean mean talking machine spilling words rhymes and reason all over the place

TG: anyway she said that

TT: I thought you were inquiring “how do I”?

TG: i was gonna ask how you knew i was picking her up but i figure thats because of john or something

TG: now that that entirely irrelevant subject has been thoroughly danced upon lets try again

TG: did she actually say that

TT: In her own terms, yes.

TT: As we know this was prior to the issues that have since begun to plague the oh-so-charming Egberts, but she said she wouldn’t mind having “Davey” as a “second daddy”.

TT: Both of her parental units about lost their lungs with their already-lost wits at such a testimony. Though John I assume was with his latest concerns on the matter.

TG: whats even going on with that anyway

TG: dude hasnt said jackshit to me about it

TG: i mean other than him still liking me but we havent addressed that since fucking december

TT: Oh dear. I suppose he intends to talk to you about it in due time?

TG: id say so but now weve got john jr with us and whens he gonna find some opportune window with that

TG: oh hey dave lets talk about why i left my wife and how it may or may not have to do with me wanting to make out with you

TG: oh wait hey there kiddo didnt see ya there sorry guess now you know what ruined your childhood and whole family life sure fuckin sucks doesnt it

TT: You don’t honestly think this will ruin her childhood, do you?

TG: thats kind of what divorces do dont they

TT: Yes and no. We all had single, or none in Jade’s case, parents as children, didn’t we?

TG: yeah and look at you and me

TG: couple of alcoholics with no love life and a fucked up position on life in general

TT: I credit that more so to our childhood’s immediate and constant facefull of death and tragedy, not to mention your sexual trauma and my less-than-dutiful mother.

TT: But that’s not what we are discussing here.

TT: I think she will be fine. Both her parents seem to be handling it as gracefully as possible, and she’s not losing a figure as even Molly seems the type to hope for equal custody, what with John in such a close vicinity of her home.

TT: If anything she’d simply be gaining a new figure.

TG: i guess

TG: i still dont even know what the hells going on

TT: Casey has an early bedtime, doesn’t she?

TG: yeah so

TT: Seems a perfect time for the two of you to talk.

TG: good point

TG: we talk about me all the time whats even up with that

TT: You always talk about yourself, you love that.

TG: hey shut the fuck up not my fault im awesome

TG: but no i mean like about serious shit

TT: Oh yeah you do detest that.

TG: why not ever about you

TT: Because you don’t care beyond a healthy friendly amount, I just also happen to be fascinated.

TG: good point

TT: As well as I’m a lot better at working things out myself. You require someone to bounce off of.

TG: hey youre not as well off as you think even i can

TG: oh case wants to play dolls great

TG: g2g see ya

— turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 10:21 —


	27. A Very Important Day

Your name is Dave Strider, you are thirty-one years old, and this is becoming the longest-running evening of your life.

If you weren’t already dead certain your mind was playing tricks on you, you’d say the sun took three days to set, nostalgic, winter light fading in through the kitchen windows just before dinner was set. Dinner itself has been a year and a half though - slow, lifeless bites of mashed potatoes between aging teeth, and Casey talking about Jesus knows what anymore. You love hearing what she has to say, honestly, and normally you adore enjoying John’s cooking to the fullest, but you just can’t stop shaking and yet in this shaking you can’t shake the thought of talking to John tonight. 

Is it because you’re surrounded by dominoes that tell your very fate in their lined up polka dots that make no sense to you (nor anybody)? Is it because you can’t feel whether you have wings to pull you up from the broken streets anymore? Is it the clock that just keeps ticking, ticking, ticking, forever echoing in your ears? Is it your sandbound feet or your locked-shut jaw or your static-clad eyes or your run-wild thoughts or your words that just, don’t, connect, anymore?

Your mind is racing, it’s swimming, it’s spinning, and it’s all at once as if you feel something coming on, you know something’s coming on, you can feel it just as you felt the end of the world beneath your converse-covered feet. Yet, silver fork hanging from your mouth, you glance up for a moment, noticing that Casey’s since stopped talking and the kitchen is silent save for the unloved ceiling fan above. John is smiling at you, just this big doofy grin with some little black whispers of hair outlining his mouth (just small - his father always taught him to keep well-shaved and damn if he doesn’t stick to it), and you can tell by that look that you want to sit here every day, eating the same old fucking mashed potatoes, and looking at him and listening to Casey. Who knew you could be so domestic? (Who are you even kidding anymore?)

“You have dimples when you smile!” Casey exclaims at you, and you realize that’s exactly what you’re doing, a twitch going through your features in gentle surprise. “I wish I had some - Mommy’s got some but none from Daddy, nuh-uh.”

“No siree, I took ‘em all from him when we were little,” you say with a full mouth, raising your eyebrows at her briefly like it’s a serious story. “Maybe you can snatch your best friend’s when you get a little older.”

And then John’s laughing, not because you’re funny, but because everyone involved knows that was the stupidest thing to say and it’s just kind of nice to know that. “Just be lucky you don’t have freckles like Dave,” John adds teasingly. “No one likes those enough to steal them.” You shoot him a death glare, resisting the urge to flip him the bird.

And when dinner passes, Casey gets in her pajamas and you all watch a movie on a freshly unloaded high-def TV (it’s the one you gave him, and Casey feels the need to tell you that like you don’t know). The little girl sets herself up in the middle of the couch, patting both sides of her with an affirming nod. John snorts some, taking up one side of her, and you taking the other, and then she giggles as she snuggles into both of you (or at least until she fidgets her way out of said snuggle a good two minutes later, fucking kids).

The ticks aren’t slow or fast right now, they’re even, like a metronome, like the beats you don’t pay enough attention to anymore, and you think that that’s what you’ve been looking for. Some peace of mind. Some semblance of some steadiness that you honestly could’ve found elsewhere but you never would have even dreamed of that.

Yet you’re shaking again (did you expect any less?) when John’s put Casey to bed, her having fallen asleep on both your laps halfway through the film, and he’s sitting back next to you, nestled up even closer under the blanket but still not quite close enough.

Your heart racing your hands are shaking your lungs are stopping your eyes aren’t focused

but slowly you close them, and reach over, and put your hand over his. 

“We gotta talk.”

His eyes turn to you, a deer in the headlights - the look in them telling you he expected it and yet his guard was completely down. “I uhm… sure, dude! What is it?” he asks with a laugh (moving his hand just a little, but it’s to get comfortable and you almost sigh from relief over that, almost).

“This whole… thing,” you start, and you suddenly realize you have no idea what you’re fucking talking about. Despite your tireless recounts and your nights staring at speckled ceilings thinking over and over this, you haven’t the slightest idea, what the hell you’re talking about. “With me and, you, and… what’s going on?” Eloquent, Strider - really wooing him. 

Why do you need to woo him anyway? You’re thirty-one years old, this isn’t high school, and John isn’t some cute guy at your school that you wanna have perfect teeth and cool slicked-back hair to impress. You don’t need cheesy lines or a winning grin to win him. He already likes you, so if anything’s going to happen, it’ll happen.

You still hope he thinks you’re cool, but you always have, so what else is new?

He gulps, nodding his head slowly (and keeping his hand in place underneath yours). “Yeah… that.”

You give him a few moments, before sighing. “Don’t leave me hanging. Is it go-time or not?” And you can’t believe how confident you sound when you say that - like it’s so effortless and as if none of this has been hard for you. Feeling like you can even sound like that is an achievement in itself, even though you guess you’ve been achieving that for years and years while you’ve kept on going.

And still he doesn’t answer, teeth nibbling his lips and his eyes downcast on the Superhero blanket stretched on over his lap. It’s so cute but so frustrating and you’re tired of this, you’re tired of being pent up and forced in and locked up inside the cage you’ve created for yourself called a body. Enough… enough is enough, and maybe you just need to go for it.

What more do you have to lose?

You throw yourself forward (you’ve done this once, maybe twice before, and still it feels so new, feels so open, feels so free and you’re drowning in it), your lips against his. It’s not harsh like last time… gentle, caring, holding his face in your hand while the other holds the hand beneath it tightly. It’s like your first kiss, his lips so soft, so wonderful, just like everything you ever dreamed of. You feel sparks, a million of those cliche little explosions of fireworks at once. It’s a volcanic eruption, a geyser set loose, and your chest heaves and your mouth is just barely open, not so you can make out or anything, but so you can apply that much much pleasure to it, that much more passion and all in that one moment you just have to show him what the fucking hell he’s always meant to you. 

Time stands still there, and you wonder if this is why you always put that dumb moment in your movies. You always just kind of followed the moments given by films past, catching on and following in their footsteps in a way that only you seemed to find hysterical. But here it is, that big crowning moment and god damn it, it’s real. That simple, uneventful moment before he kisses you back, his lips moving slowly to match the feeling and his fingers intertwining with yours. Last time you were nervous and scared (and maybe you still a little are), but overall you feel free as a bird, your feet gone from under you, and you think that in that brief return, in that pressing of himself to you in response, you can see how he feels about you, too.

Yet those movie-frame moments always do what movie moments do best - they come to an end, and he’s pulling back, eyes opening, and while he catches his breath he has the dorkiest fucking look on his face. “Tell me about it, stud,” you breathe, still not pulled too far away from him just yet.

And then he laughs his stupid laugh, his breath smelling of toothpaste (he always makes Casey brush right after dinner, and he does it too then), and his eyes squishing up a little, showing off all his forming smile lines. It’s silent then, and you’re both thinking a million miles a minute, John’s eyes have glassed over with focus and you ultimately closing yours.

“So is that a yes to you and me as a hot item?” you ask finally, opening those eyes and moving (clacking your glasses together at that point). You don’t see at all why it’d be a no, how the hell would it even begin to be a no after that? You don’t mean to brag but, you two’ve got a pretty sweet deal going here, you’ve got a sweet deal going here - not even tragedies could pull that kind of bullshit.

He laughs again, letting go of you to hit your arm roughly. “Looks like it, doesn’t it?”

Today is a very important day for the person most important to you - it’s the day he begins a new place for his family, his daughter peeking out of her bedroom and giggling when she sees him wrestling with you. It’s a beginning, it’s a new light, it’s something none of you expected. It’s something big for the love of your life. 

And hey maybe - maybe it can be for you too.


End file.
